Catalyst
by Kizu Mizu
Summary: Just how immovable is the object, when the unstoppable force calls in for reinforcements? Roger's about to find out. AU Pre-RENT
1. Prologue

**Catalyst**

_A quick note before I begin: I adore the canon story of RENT and am in no way disrespecting Jonathan Larson's work. Because it is truly genius and I'm no fool. I don't think I can make RENT better; I just saw a story within the lyrics of 'One Song Glory' and in the note April left for Roger. My imagination took care of the rest. _

_Yes, there IS an OC in here, an original female character on top of that. (gasp!) _

_I am well aware of the opinion of many regarding OCs in stories; as well as the opinions of changing canon to suit the writer's purposes. I promise to do my best at it, giving you a worthwhile read as well as doing justice to the characters created by Mr. Larson's amazing talent. I expect you, as the reader, to be patient, kind, and honest with me. Let me know what you think. But do it with the knowledge that every word I write in this story is agonized over and treat it with the respect it is due, as a piece of myself. _

_Thank you._

_**This story is dedicated to my amazing beta, GoddessLaughs, whose genius is the guidance that keeps this story from derailing. Thanks girl, I appreciate it a ton!**_

**Prologue**

The floor cold against the backs of his thighs, the guitar's wood warm across his lap, Roger sat in darkness, his fingers flying over the strings. The chords filled the half-empty loft with the mournful sound of a broken heart. Heedless of the tears coursing down his cheeks, his long fingers picked at the wire strings as twilight bent beneath the intractable will of night.

He opened his eyes and it was still there, taunting him.

The envelope sat on the floor in front of him: white, pristine, unmolested. Roger ran his fingers over the strings roughly, pulling a jarring, dissonant trio of notes from the reluctant belly of his Fender.

He didn't want to think about that damn envelope. Of what it contained, what it signified.

_We've got AIDS._ The unbidden memory had him shoving to his feet, setting his guitar aside roughly, wincing as the acoustic protested to the treatment. Smoothing his hand down the neck of the instrument and biting off a curse, Roger stepped away and turned on his heel.

He paced the length of the loft, head down, hands shoved into the pockets of his ratty jeans. When he reached the far wall, he leaned his forehead against the cool brick and closed his eyes for a moment. But he could find no solace in the gesture, the envelope still whispered to him.

_We've got AIDS._

He extracted his hands from his pockets and, with a growl, shoved away from the wall, pacing with renewed fervor. Each time he passed the envelope he swore again, ever louder.

He was lost in thought when his roommate rolled back the door and stepped into the dark loft. He didn't hear the exclaimation he made, or the noises when he searched for their stash of candles. His: "What did the power go off?" jolted Roger out of his dark thoughts, making him jump.

"Christ." he breathed. "Don't do that."

Mark surveyed him curiously. "Do what?"

"You scared the shit out of me," Roger muttered, swiping the back of his hand under his nose.

"Sorry." Mark cocked his head. "What're you doing in the dark?"

Roger grunted in response and turned to start another circle about the room. Mark crossed to the couch, shucking his coat and scarf along the way.

"What's going-"

Roger snorted at the sound of understanding that Mark uttered with his next breath; he'd spotted the envelope. "Yeah," Roger muttered. "'Oh.'"

Mark stared down at it, side-stepping it on his way to Roger's side. He seemed almost as unwilling to touch it as Roger, himself, was. "So," he asked, casually. "Gonna open it?"

Roger bit back the angry refusal. The understanding in his friend's eyes was enough to keep a leash on his temper and make him sigh. "I don't know."

"You need to. You'll feel better if you do."

He wanted to deny it, but he wasn't sure Mark was so wrong. But, then, he wasn't sure he was right, either. Shrugging again, he moved to pick up his guitar once more.

"Roger."

He stopped, his retreat from the room thwarted, and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to open it. Couldn't Mark understand that? He gripped the neck of his guitar in his fist, fighting with the words he wanted to scream at his friend.

"You may not want to open it," Mark murmured. "But you need to."

Unable to argue with that, Roger turned back the way he'd come, bending to retrieve the letter from the floor.

He toyed with it a moment or two more before setting about opening it. It took him three tries to rip through the adhesive before finally pulling the letter out of the now mangled packaging. Looking down at the paper in his hands, he held his breath. If he didn't open it, if he didn't see what was written inside that innocuous envelope, maybe the death sentence handed to April would pass him by.

Catching Mark's eye, he sighed inwardly at his stupidity and took a firmer grip on the letter.

He unfolded the paper with trembling fingers. Thirty seconds passed before he could gather enough courage to look down at the results printed plainly on the paper.

For a moment the words did not register, he stared at them dumbly, thumb running idly over the raised ink. Then it hit him; his legs quivered and gave out - he would have ended up in a heap on the floor if not for Mark hurdling the sofa to reach him in time, snagging him around the waist and guiding him toward the couch. "Good news?" Mark asked, staring at the shaking hand that held the results.

Roger choked out a laugh. "Negative," he whispered, a shudder wracking his body. "It's negative." His head dropped onto his fists, the paper crumpling against the grip of his fingers. Mark clapped him twice on the shoulder, and then jerked him to his feet by his tee-shirt, capturing him in a warm embrace.

Roger clung to Mark and did his best to battle back the tears that longed to fall.

After a moment, Mark broke the silence and the embrace with a small cough and a smile. "So, we should celebrate or something, huh?"

Snuffling wetly, Roger wiped the back of his hands over his eyes. "I guess."

"You guess?" Mark huffed out a breath. "This is a huge deal, Roger! Definitely something to celebrate!"

"If you say so."

Now that the worst of the terrible fear was over, his thoughts turned from the happy news of his own freedom to thoughts of the young girl who had taken her life to escape the sentence imposed on her by that small, deadly virus. Mark, the man who knew him better than anyone else, sighed.

"You're not to blame, Rog."

"If not me, then who?"

"She made her own choices, took her own path."

Looking away, Roger let the subject drop; it would be pointless arguing with Mark; he could never understand just how responsible Roger really was.

Mark didn't know that he'd been late coming home that day; buying smack instead of being there for her when she'd needed him the most. He didn't deserve to be the one that lived. Without April there with him, what was the point of living at all?

After a moment, Mark broke the silence that hung thick in the room. "I ran into Mitch near the Vice."

"What'd he want?"

"He wanted to see how you were doing."

"Bullshit."

"He did. He heard you were getting yourself clean and was wondering how it was going."

"How'd he hear that?" Roger pinned Mark with a look. The other man shrugged and pushed his glasses back up his nose.

"He used to be one of our best friends, Rog."

Roger rose from the couch. "Key words there, Mark: used to be."

Mark sighed, "You really have to let that go - it was a good thing for you. It got you out, away from the drama of the band so you could focus on getting better."

Roger's opinion of that was pithy. Mark chuckled. "I suppose you don't want to hear the rest of what he had to say, then?"

Roger bit off a laugh. "If I know you like I know I do, I'll hear it whether I want to or not."

"True enough," Mark conceded. "Well, Mitch mentioned to me that Olivia was finally done with school and coming home."

The smile dropped off of Roger's face and when he spoke it was barely above a whisper. "She is? What does this have to do with me?"

Mark rolled his eyes. "Roger, stop playing dumb. We both know how this affects you."

"Please," Roger muttered and it sounded more like pleading than the derisive denial he'd intended. "That was nearly five years ago."

"But she's legal, this time."

If looks could kill, Roger's would have. "Mark, drop it. It's not like she'll remember the fact she was 'desperately in love with me' when she left." Or the fact that he'd been nearly as in love with her. He rolled his eyes at the look on his friend's face. Clearly the thought had occured to Mark too.

"Oh, shut up."

His roommate held out his hands. "I didn't say anything." But the smile remained.

Roger, annoyed, hissed quietly between clenched teeth and grabbed up his guitar, leaving Mark standing in the middle of their darkened loft. The reverberating slam of a door was the only farewell Mark got.


	2. One

**Chapter One**

Olivia Reed walked off of the plane with more swagger than when she'd left. The five years away from home had served her well. Self-sufficient and struggling to keep a sense of self-confidence, Olivia felt she had done her best putting the child in her to rest.

But just because she was an adult didn't mean she couldn't be excited to see her daddy, now did it?

He caught her when she came bulleting forward, wrapping her arms around his neck, happily choking him. "Easy there, Livvy, do you want to choke your old man to death?" She released him only to squeeze him a second time upon seeing his face.

"I missed you, Pop." He chuckled and ran a hand over her ponytail when she finally loosed her grip on him.

"I missed you too, Liv."

She glanced around the terminal, searching out familiar faces. When she saw none, she turned her gaze back to her father. "Where are Mitch and the guys?" Olivia regretted the words the instant they left her mouth and she cringed at the way her father's face hardened "Never mind, I'm sure I'll run into them eventually…" She turned to grab up her gunnysack, swinging it over one shoulder.

"Olivia. I don't want you hanging around the band anymore." His tone made her shoulders scrunch and in that instant she was that gawky teenager, desperate for her father's approval, all over again.

"But Pop…"

"No 'but Pop', all right?" He held out a hand for her bag. "You're not getting caught up in that crowd."

Olivia handed him the bag, frowning. "But…"

"End of discussion."

The tone annoyed her. It was as though she could see him, picturing her in pigtails, or - more than likely - diapers again. "Dad. I'm almost twenty-two; you don't get to order me around anymore."

He gripped the strap of her luggage tightly in a fist. "You lost your manners out there, Olivia."

"I lost a lot of things out there, Pop." They stared at each other for a long minute and Olivia remembered just how much she hated fighting with her father. Finally, she sighed, arranging a crooked smile on his face. "I don't want to fight. Can't we just go home?"

She saw Mitch the instant she stepped out of her father's second-hand sedan. Her big brother was sitting on the front stoop, his long legs crossed, the smile on his lips so like their father's.

"Mitch!" she cried, racing toward him. He was on his feet the instant before she launched herself at him. "Hi!"

"Welcome home." He laughed and gave her a quick squeeze before setting her back on her feet. "Happy to be home?"

"I am." She looked up at the graying sky and spun in a small circle, beaming. "I missed New York so much…and everybody. I can't wait to see them again."

Mitch sighed, sobering. "Well, don't be surprised when things aren't exactly the way you left 'em, all right, Liv?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, her good mood evaporating. "What's happened?"

"Roger's out of the band, for one." Mitch shook his head at her confused expression. "It's not your business anymore, Liv; just leave it alone."

Olivia pressed her lips together, ignoring her brother's words. "I'll get it out of Rog eventually."

"It would be best, for everyone, if you let him be, Olivia."

Her anger flared. "What if I don't want to leave him be?" Inwardly she winced. She sounded like a petulant child.

Biting her lip to keep the pout from forming, she squared her shoulders and stared up into her brother's darkened countenance.

"I catch you near him," his voice dropped dangerously. "And I won't be responsible for what I do to him."

"God, Mitch, you're acting like a Neanderthal," Olivia forced a laugh past the ache in her chest. She hadn't even been home for an hour and already she'd begun feeling like a child. Her jaw tightened and she glared defiantly into her brother's reddened face. "It's absurd. I'm heading down to their place as soon as I get unpacked."

He grabbed her arm, fingers digging into flesh. "You're not, and that's final."

"Mitch!" Olivia scowled at him, trying to wrench her arm free. "Stop it."

"All right you two," her father passed between them, loaded down with luggage. "Let's worry about getting all of Livvy's junk inside and unpacked before you start waging war. Girl hasn't been home an hour and already the pair of you are ready to spill blood on my front stoop." He rolled his eyes as he headed up the stairs, muttering the whole way.

Glaring daggers at the back of Mitch's head as her brother bent to pick up a cardboard box, Olivia followed their father into the house, arms laden with pillows and two backpacks slungover her shoulders.

* * *

"Out of the question!" Mitch blocked the doorway leading from the kitchen into the living room. His scowl might have frightened her into submission when she was a girl, but now it just pissed her off.

"It was never a problem before!" She kept her voice a few decibels lower than a shout, barely. She was above this, screaming at her idiot brother. But, her maturity took a back seat to the red-haze covering her vision.

Two sets of eyes turned her way, waves of disapproval radiating off of the pair of them. Even though her father had been silent throughout the entire argument, she could just tell he agreed with her moronic brother. The thought rankled.

"I'm old enough to make my own decisions now, you know; I've been making them for myself for years. It would be nice if I got a little more respect from the pair of you."

Her brother scoffed. "You'll get respect when you show good sense."

She stared at him for a moment. Surely he hadn't just said that to her? His closed expression was enough of a clue. She made a noise of disgust at the back of her throat and whirled around and stalked from the room. Before she was halfway out of the kitchen, Mitch's hand closed around her arm again, jerking her to a halt. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Over to Roger's."

"Did you not hear a word that I've said to you? You aren't going anywhere near him."

"Mitchell…Olivia…"

The warning tone seemed to have opposite the desired effect on the siblings. Olivia turned on her heel and charged from the room and Mitch darted after her, bellowing the whole way. Their father sighed grouchily and followed them into the living room where a tug-o-war had begun over Olivia's jacket.

"Let go!" she sniped.

"No."

"Damn it, Mitch, this was eighty dollars! You're going to rip it!"

"I'll let go when you say you're not going."

They fought over the jacket some moments longer, before she threw up her hands, releasing the denim. "Fine!" she spat. "Keep it."

She shoved past him and out the front door.

Mitch looked at his father expectantly, exasperation clear on his face. The older man just stared back. "Best let her cool off," his father suggested finally.

"But-"

"You go after her now, and she's liable to plant a fist in your face, boy."


	3. Two

**Chapter Two**

Roger huddled under his covers. His head was pounding and his mouth tasted, oddly, of sawdust. He tossed and turned for a few minutes before he jammed the back of his head into his pillow. Going back to sleep was out of the question. On a sigh of disgust, he pushed himself up off of his pillow and sat staring at the wall with dry, gritty eyes.

Mark had left early that morning, leaving the songwriter with only his Fender and a head-full of morbid thoughts for company. He took out his pain on his guitar, calloused fingers making the steel strings scream and weep like he wished he could. The melody rose and fell, as chaotic and dissonant as the thoughts that were roiling within his head.

When his fingers had become too raw and sore to play any longer, he'd taken refuge in his room hoping that sleep would allow him to escape the quiet, subversive voice of the monster in his mind.

Now, he was awake and that monster was gnawing at his insides.

He pushed the covers off of his legs and swung them over the side of the mattress. For a moment he sat still, head clutched in his hands while goosebumps beaded along the back of his neck and shoulders.

The shudder that raced down his spine foiled his first attempt to stand. With a grunt of effort, he shoved himself to his feet a second time and teetered across the room on legs as wobbly as a newborn's.

Stumbling into the bathroom, he stood there, holding the bowl in a white-knuckled grip, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

His stubble stood out against his pallid cheeks, and his eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. He didn't know how long he stood there staring at the grotesque picture he made in the watermarked mirror, minutes, days; it all blended together in a swirl of aching, biting, burning pain.

"You look like shit," he muttered to himself, breaking the spell his silence had woven, and releasing his hold on the sink once the quivering in his knees faded away.

With a groan, he turned and walked back towards his bedroom. Sinking down onto the edge of his mattress, he grabbed the pair of jeans, discarded earlier that day, and pulled them over his narrow hips.

He stood and gazed around the room, pulling on the first shirt he could lay his hands on.

He knew of only one way to silence the monster.

Casting a glance back toward the box serving as his bedside table, where the dim light of evening glinted off of the metal needle and blackened spoon resting there. Sighing, he moved to his dresser, yanking free a purple sock (a gift from Mark's mother during Chanukah) and pulled the roll of bills from the toe. Shoving the money into the front pocket of his jeans, he grabbed his jacket from the floor and headed for the door.

He winced as one of his bare feet stepped too heavily on the creaky board outside of Mark's bedroom door, praying his roommate hadn't come home yet. Roger waited, anxiously listening for any sound coming from behind that closed door. When none came, he blew out a relieved breath and shrugged into his jacket.

Mark wouldn't like to know where he was going. In fact, he would probably take great pleasure in lecturing Roger about his habits. But with the wonderful percussions pounding out behind his eyes, Roger was in no mood to hear any of it. He just wanted the feeling gone.

He tugged on his shoes, tying them in loose knots before heading out the door, rolling it closed behind him.

The air was growing chilly with the impending change from summer to fall. Roger hugged his coat tighter around him, wishing violently he hadn't been such a moron and gotten his hair cut. He hunched his shoulders, hoping that his jacket would cover the newly-exposed skin as the breeze ruffled the military-style haircut.

He puffed out a breath and jogged to the corner. Without even waiting for the light to change, Roger darted across the street and down the alley, toward Tent City where he knew salvation waited, white powder in a plastic baggie.

* * *

Olivia walked down the street, marvelling that five years could do nothing to change the place she had called home. There was Mr. Huang's video store, the Quarter-by-Quarter laundromat, that corner Mexican place with the great tacos and the record store known more for drugs than album sales.

The streets were the same: filthy, dark and hopeless.

Sighing, she shook her head and sidestepped a pile of rubbish that, she was pretty sure, was actually someone's home.

As she turned down the alley leading to the building where Mark and Roger had lived for the past ten years, she wondered how she would fit once more into the world she had left behind. A thinking, strong-willed woman of purpose and principles. Would it be the same as being a young girl with principles? Only this time, she was old enough to have a say, as well as the means to make a difference.

She smiled at the thought. Her friendships with Roger, Mitch and his band had given her a taste of the bohemian lifestyle, but it was her time at UCLA that had truly helped her find her voice.

It was exhilarating, discovering the things in life that made her blood heat and her mind crackle with creative electricity. Ideas and thoughts could flow a million miles a minute and she found that her feet itched to go, to do, to conquer.

And now, she was taking that passion out of her childhood and using it to shape the woman she was becoming. Already her head was full of grand plans.

An apartment was first on her list of things to do, something small and near Alphabet city. For convenience's sake, she told herself, and not because it was so close to her father and brother.

She glanced up at the building that Roger and Mark called home; it was the same, all windows and fire-escapes. Cocking her head to one side, Olivia pressed her lips together. This would be a perfect area for her to settle in. Not because of Roger, she told herself silently. She had to put herself first.

But she couldn't deny that having Roger close by would certainly be a bonus.

Sighing, she pulled the door open and headed for the stairs.

The stairwell was dimly lit with bulbs that seemed more content to flicker, instead of giving off a steady glow. She gripped the railing tightly and jogged up the six flights of stairs.

Pushing her hair from her face with one hand, she jiggled the outer door to the flat with the other. The door, as it always had been in the past, was unlocked. She stepped in, staring at the large metal door in front of her.

What would they think? she wondered. Would they recognize her? Would they still see her as the girl she used to be? In a moment of childish indecision, Olivia took a step in retreat and bit her lip. Then, annoyed with herself, she lifted a hand and rapped loudly on the metal and stepped back to wait for someone to come to the door.

That someone turned out to be Mark and she saw that he hadn't changed at all since she left. The idea thrilled her.

All thought of sophistication forgotten in her joy, she launched herself at him. "Mark!"

He grunted, wrapping his arms around her out of self defense. She clung to him a moment before allowing him to pull her away. His bleary eyes gazed into hers and for a moment, she deflated, thinking he didn't recognize her. Then his eyes widened and a grin blossomed on his lips. Before she could say another word, he had jerked back her against him, squeezing her tightly.

"Liv." He pulled her back, ducking his head to look in her eyes. "Christ, what are you doing here?"

"I came to see you guys."

He blinked and reached up to readjust his glasses. "We - I'd heard you were coming home, but I certainly didn't expect..." he trailed off, before gripping her hands in his. "You look great."

Feeling much more comfortable, she reached up to ruffle his hair. "I wish I could say the same for you," she teased. "You look like you came out the wrong end of a wrestling match with your pillow."

He chuckled and ushered her inside. She followed him across the candlelit living room, smiling at his back. "How are you, Mark?"

He sighed, shoulders drooping slightly. "I've been better, been worse."

Rolling her eyes, she flopped onto the couch, feeling wonderfully at home in the chilly air of the loft. "Oh, good, I was afraid you were going to be ambiguous."

Mark glanced over his shoulder at her, the corners of his mouth quirking up into a wry smile.

"Come on, Mark," she cajoled. "I haven't seen you in nearly five years - surely something interesting happened while I was gone."

He laughed, but it was a bitter, brittle sound. Alarmed, Olivia stood from the couch. "Mark?"

He shook his head and sat on the cushion beside her, taking her arm and tugging her down with him. "It's...been a long five years, Livvy."

She frowned. "Did something happen? Is everyone okay? Collins? Maureen? Benny?" She hoped her gulp wasn't audible. "Roger?"

"Everyone's alive," Mark conceded. "There's just been a lot of change around here." The lines of sorrow on his face made Olivia reach across and grab his hand in hers.

"What's happened, Mark?"

He was silent, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, before glancing up into her worried eyes. "Benny got married."

That startled her. The utter disappointment in his eyes and set of his mouth was enough to make her laugh. "You make that sound like it's a bad thing."

"He's married someone from uptown."

Olivia's eyes widened in understanding. "Oh."

"Allison Grey, of the Westport Greys."

She snorted. "Snooty."

Mark looked over at her and laughed, the sound genuine this time. "Yeah. So, tell me what's been going on with you? Like you said, it's been five years."

She shrugged a shoulder. "I really don't have much to tell. Went to school, graduated, got a degree in social work." Mark's eyebrows winged up. "What? Surprised?"

"Shocked. Collins and the rest of us all had money down you'd become an actress, or a singer."

She chuckled. "I thought about it." Agonized over it, she corrected herself. "But I realized what's really important in life."

"And what's that?"

She smirked. "It's something that you need to find out for yourself."

He rolled his eyes. "So, now that you're all educated, Miss Reed, what are you planning to do?"

"Open a community center for Alphabet City. Get the kids off the street - out of gangs and drugs."

"Lofty goal."

Olivia smiled. "I dream big, Mark; don't you remember?"

He laughed. "All I remember is you following Roger and the rest of the guys around, begging for music lessons, voice lessons..." he wiggled his brows suggestively. "Other sorts of lessons."

Slapping his arm, she leveled a stern frown at him. "It's not polite to remind a girl how ridiculous she was in her youth."

"Youth? I suppose you're old and decrepit now, is that it?"

She slapped him again before flopping against his side. "I've missed this, Mark."

He chuckled and tugged on the ends of her hair. "We missed you too, kiddo."

She tensed, pushing herself up to look at him with wide, earnest eyes. "I'm not a child anymore, Mark."

She could tell by the curl of his lip that he was about to dismiss her with a laugh, but he saw her face and disguised it with a cough.

When she continued to stare at him, his eyes grew serious. "I know you're not a child, Liv."

She sighed and sank back against him. "I wish you could tell my brother and father that. I haven't even been home a full day, and already I feel like they want me back in pigtails and playing with dolls."

"They're family - it's their job to make you feel immature and idiotic." He cast a meaningful look at the answering machine sitting dejectedly on a wooden chair across the room. "Trust me."

She broke the comfortable silence that had settled between them some time later, "How is everybody? You told me about Benny...what about Maureen? I didn't see any of her leather pants strewn about. Don't tell me she's gone conventional?"

Mark cleared his throat and shifted on the cushion. "She...she's not living here anymore."

Olivia squeezed his hand. "You two fighting?"

Mark rolled his eyes. "When are we not?"

She had never cared for Maureen, but the bitter tone coming out of her dear friend was more than she could bear. Olivia threw her arms around his neck and squeezed. "I'm sure you two'll get back on track."

"We'll see." Mark said, pressing his lips together and looking away.

"So we've got you and Benny," she ticked the names off on her fingers, changing the subject to save Mark from anymore grief thinking about Maureen. "And Maureen and me. How's Roger?"

Olivia had hoped that Mark took her question as a casual inquiry, rather than a child-like eagerness to hear about her former crush.

Mark, however, was not fooled.

"Still into him, are you?"

"'Into him'?" she parroted. "Where would you get an idea like that? I was just asking about him."

"With that look on your face."

She gaped at him. "What look?"

"Please, dear God don't let him recognize the fact I'm still in love with Roger..." He smirked. "That look."

Rolling her eyes, she shoved herself off of the couch. "You're so full of shit, I don't know how you walk around without waddling."

He laughed and stood with her. "Hit a nerve, didn't I?"

She opened her mouth to retort but the sound of feet pounding up the stairs interrupted and saved Mark from a sound tongue lashing.

"Sounds like Roger's back," Mark commented, slanting her a look.

She stuck her tongue out at him and moved into the kitchen.

"Hey," Mark greeted. "Where'd you run off to?"

"Out." The terseness of the reply took Olivia aback. The Roger she knew hadn't been one to lash out in a temper. Hell, she couldn't remember him ever actually being in a temper. Curious, she edged her way toward the door, peeking out into the living area, where Roger and Mark were facing off across the large metal table.

"Roger..."

"Don't ask me, Mark," Roger murmured, hands stuffed in his pants' pockets. "I don't want to lie to you."

"Then don't." He continued to stare at his friend, disappointment written all over his face. "You told me you were going to quit."

"And I will." Roger turned to disappear back to his bedroom. "Tomorrow."

"How convenient," Mark muttered. "The day that never comes."

Roger whirled around and bared his teeth at his roommate. "Just drop it. Jesus, Mark, you're not my mother! So stay the fuck out of my life." His gaze shifted past his best friend. Eyes narrowed, he turned away once more, eyes flicking toward the kitchen to where Olivia stood as if rooded to the spot. "What the fuck is she doing here?"

Apparently her surprised gasp hadn't just been in her head. Smiling sheepishly she tugged at the hem of her shirt and walked toward him. "Hey Roger. It's good to see you."

"What are you doing here?" he asked darkly, shifting his gaze back and forth between her and Mark.

"I came to see you and Mark."

He didn't say anything, or even move in her direction. He just stared at her, eyes hard.

Olivia shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, feeling very much like a recalictrant child. "I guess I was wrong in assuming you'd be glad to see me."

"I guess you were."

Mark took a step between them. "Come on, Roger."

"Shut up, Mark," Roger snapped. "I'm going to change." He shot Mark a black look. "She's gone by the time I get out." With that order, he was gone, leaving the two friends staring after him in speechless wonder.

"He," Olivia cleared her throat and rolled the tension from her shoulders. She could feel the burning starting behind her eyes and bit her tongue to stop the tears. She wouldn't cry in front of Mark. She refused. "He's changed."

Mark nodded, a grimace twisting his lips. "It's been a hard couple years for him, Liv. Give him time. He'll come around."

Staring at the strange expression in Mark's eyes made her wonder just what had happened while she'd been away. "I...of course. Of course I will." She smiled weakly at her friend, though he read her easily enough.

"He doesn't mean it, sweetie - you know that."

"Yeah." She laughed quietly. "Sure. Hey, Mark, I'm just going to go, okay? I don't want him to get any angrier than he already is."

He opened his mouth to contradict her, but nodded instead. "Yeah." He led the way to the door. "I'll call you when Collins gets back in town, huh? We can go get some tea at the Life Cafe."

She smirked. "You mean you actually have money to buy something there?" She shook her head. "Whatever is the world coming too?"

He snorted. "Sure, I just rummage through the cushions on the couch, that thing's bound to have at least a buck fifty hidden away in there."

Standing on her tip-toes she pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I'm glad we got to hang for a bit, Mark."

"Me too."

"Night."

He tugged her in for a short hug. "Night, Livvy."


	4. Three

**Chapter Three**

Roger refused to leave his room, even when he heard the door slam shut.

Hanging his head, he tightened his grip around the plastic bag that was clutched in his fist.

Damn her. Why did she have to show up now; when he was so weak, so disgusted with himself and so willing to take it out on anyone?

He tossed the baggie onto his bedside table and turned his back on it's tempting, taunting whisper.

Why had she come back now? The way she'd stepped out of the kitchen, all bright, beautiful and excited. The flush on her cheeks died quickly under his harsh words. It made him wince to think of them, to think of her. The look on her face, Jesus. The way those brown eyes had widened, darkened with hurt. He hissed out a breath and raked a hand through his hair.

Damn her.

A knock on his door pulled him from his thoughts. Knowing who was on the other side, Roger ignored it, waiting. Mark exploded over the threshold. "Did you have to be such a dick?" he blurted out, any preamble buried beneath the flood of temper.

Roger rolled his eyes heaven-ward, and shrugged a shoulder and pulled his guitar into his lap. Color suffused his roommate's face and Mark took three steps forward before he stopped, his fists clenched tightly at his side. "Don't ignore me," he growled.

Roger kept his eyes on the neck of his guitar, plucking out a tune, idly.

"Do you realize what you did to her, Roger?" Mark glared at him, gesturing furiously. "She worships you."

Roger snorted keeping his eyes on his fingers, stroking the guitar strings, trying to wipe the memory of those brown eyes from his brain. "It's time she learned I'm not worthy of hero-worship."

Crossing to him, Mark jerked the instrument from his hands. "You're a fucking idiot."

Roger inclined his head at the truth of the statement before reaching and snatching his Fender back. He tried to return his focus to the guitar, but the image of Olivia's stricken face floated into his mind and his shoulders stiffened.

"She's better off," he muttered defensively, turning his face away from the condemnation in his friend's gaze.

"She is," Mark countered. "Or you are?"

Roger's head shot up. "What?"

"You heard me." Huffing out an exasperated breath, Mark leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're scared."

"Scared?" Roger scoffed. "Of what?"

"Her."

The laughed that crossed his lips was harsh, forced. "Why would I be afraid of her?"

"Because she reminds you of the past; of who you used to be. Before this," he crossed the room, picking up the bag of white powder. Roger shot up from the bed and snatched it from Mark's grasp.

"Leave it alone, Mark."

"I've left it alone for too long, Roger," Mark snarled, drilling a finger into Roger's chest. "You need to stop this. This shit is going to kill you."

Roger slapped his hand away. "I know what I'm doing," he snapped. "I'll thank you to stay the hell out of my life."

The temper fled Mark so suddenly, his roommate seemed to deflate in front of him.

"Fine," he said through a heavy sigh. "Do what you want. But if you ever talk to Livvy like that again, you're going to regret it."

* * *

Once she was out of sight of the loft, Olivia let her tears come. The pain of his greeting tore through her, shredding all of the pretty ideas and daydreams she'd had about their reunion.

Excuses swirled in her brain, a thousand desperate reasons on why he had behaved that way, but her grief shoved the logic aside.

It didn't matter why - all she needed to know was that any hope she'd had of rekindling the spark that had been between them, was gone. Swiping at the wetness on her cheeks, Olivia sniffled loudly. Sucking in a calming breath, only to have it explode back out again as a sob, she stumbled on an uneven patch of concrete, landing hard and scraping both knees. Instead of getting back to her feet, she drew her knees up, leaning against the side of the building, and buried her face in her hands.

"All right there, miss?" the voice startled her and she rapped the back of her head against the brick of the building.

Her quiet yelp startled the baby-faced, beat cop, and he took two steps in retreat. "I'm...I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

She chuckled darkly. "You didn't."

He approached her warily. When she nodded and made to stand, he offered his hand.

Ignoring the hand, Olivia pushed herself to her feet. "Fine." She scrubbed her fists over her eyes, before peering up at him.

He shook his head. "You shouldn't be loitering, you know."

The mature adult within her folded under the weight of her churning emotions. "No," she snapped sarcastically. "I wasn't aware of it."

The cop continued staring at her until she turned her head and snarl at him. "What?"

He shook his head. "You're just not at all what I expected."

"Expected?"

"On the streets...at the Academy...they...well, they told us to be prepared for the worst." He smiled charmingly. "If you're the worst, I'm pretty damn lucky."

Scoffing, Olivia turned away, only to skid to a halt to avoid running into his partner. Squinting up at the taller man in the dark, she sighed. Her night was rapidly progressing from bad to worse. "Hi, Officer Martin."

"Murphy!" Martin shouted, ignoring her completely. "You're supposed to be clearing the streets, not flirting with whores."

"Hey! I'm not a..." she trailed off when she realized he wasn't listening anyway. "Prick."

Another thing about the neighborhood that hadn't changed: damn cops were as big of assholes as ever.

She turned to leave.

"Wait!" Officer Murphy's shout stopped her in mid-stride, and she turned back, surveying the open displeasure in Officer Martin's eyes as he lounged against the side of the building she'd just vacated. The pair spoke briefly, and he hurried over to her.

Turning her attention to the gangly brunette as he walked up to her, she crossed her arms impatiently.

The cop just stood there, a blush inching up out of his collar, lips working soundlessly, reminding her of a fish out of water. It might have been funny, some other time. But just now, it ticked her off.

"What could you possibly want?" she demanded, tapping her sneaker against the pavement. "It's getting late and I shouldn't be loitering."

His flush deepened, spreading up his cheeks to the roots of his hair. "Well...I...would you...I mean...would you want to..."

She snorted, eyes widening. "Are you asking me out?"

"Maybe." His frown smoothed out, turning into a surprisingly pleasant smile. "Depends on your answer."

She stared at him for a moment, and the turned on her heel. "Goodbye, Officer Murphy."

"Wait! You didn't give me an answer!" he called after her.

"You didn't actually ask," she called over her shoulder, shaking her head as she walked away The day really couldn't get more bizarre.

Bizarre. Her mind shifted back to Roger and she bit her lip hard to keep it from trembling.

It was stupid to moon over him, she told herself firmly. He was his own man, and could do as he pleased. Pressing the button for the crosswalk, she squeezed her eyes shut against another wave of miserable tears.

Blubbering in a back alley was one thing, but how would it look if she broke down and sat crying in the middle of Loisaida Avenue? Most people would just gun it through the green light and run her over without a second thought.

People were dicks, she decided. Every one of them. Especially Roger.

Anger took the place of grief swiftly and Olivia set her jaw. She wouldn't cry any longer. He wasn't worth her tears. She was an adult and she could face disappointment, could rise up and move on.

Even when all they really wanted to do was sit in a corner and weep.

As she mounted the front steps leading into her father's house, the day she'd left for California came back to her, sending a fresh jolt of pain through her middle. Despite her resolution to make a fresh start and leave the past where it belonged, the girl still hiding in the deepest part of her took hold of the bittersweet memory and forced her to relive it.

Roger had been the last person to step forward and take her in his arms for a farewell hug. It was awkward and sweet as he gripped her tightly, face buried in her hair, his breath warm on her neck.

"Take care of yourself, Livvy."

He'd been the only one who could put that particular emphasis on her name: the curl of vowels, the way his voice rumbled deep in his chest, she'd never figured out what made it different. Whatever it was, Roger was the only one who could accomplish it.

She should know, she'd searched for someone who could speak her name in just that way. Not a single male in the whole of Los Angeles could compare.

"I will, Rog," she'd whispered back, squeezing him a little tighter and fighting back the words she'd so desperately wanted to say. I love you.

He had pulled back from her eventually, brushing his fingers over the curve of her cheek. Then he was stepping away and she was boarding the plane, her skin still tingling.

Now, faced with her naïveté and stupidity, Olivia wondered how she could have been so blind. How could she have thought he considered her anything more than a nuisance? After all, she'd been dogging his steps since she was ten years old. Surely he had grown to tolerate her, view her with some sort of familial affection.

She paled, and her hand slipped off of the doorknob. That was it! It hadn't been a romantic gesture at all. It was just as though he were another brother saying goodbye to the little sister he'd been protecting for so long. Shaking her head, she gripped the doorknob tightly and shoved the door open.

Humiliation coloring her cheeks, she was grateful that the lights were off in the house and no one was lying in wait for her as she made her way to her second story bedroom. When her door was closed behind her, she stared at herself in the mirror above her vanity.

She touched her face in an imitation of his caress. "Roger..." The whisper slipped through her lips and she turned, collapsing on her bed. Heedless of the luggage littering it's surface, she cried until exhaustion tugged her into sleep.


	5. Four

**Chapter Four**

Male laughter woke her from a fitful sleep the next morning. Olivia rolled over and glanced at the clock. Six-seventeen. It didn't surprise her. Both her father and brother had jobs that required them to leave the house early. She sat up, stretching. The sun was just barely peeking through her window, bathing her with its warm, inviting light.

With a large yawn, she pushed the covers off of her legs, and swung her feet over the matress. It was amazing that Mitch had let her sleep in.

Mitchell Reed never missed an opportunity to interrogate his baby sister, and Olivia had fully expected for her brother to come barging into her room, outfitted with rubber hoses and spotlights, determined to find out exactly what had happened at Mark and Roger's the night before. Having missed his chance the night before, she had been certain he would not let the sun rise before he found out exactly what had gone on over at Mark and Roger's the night before.

Roger.

His name brought back the dull ache, residual from her storm of tears and his hurtful words. She blew out a breath, forcing the sting of new tears away and pushing her hair behind her ears.

Another peal laughter came floating through the heat register again, making Olivia frown. That wasn't her father's laugh.

She walked down the hall toward the stairs, hovering there for a moment, listening intently. Finally, curiosity got the better of her and she crept down the stairs. Surprise and dismay ran through her when she spotted Mark.

Mitch, his back to her, stood next to her friend, talking quickly and quietly. Mark nodded at his words and and ran his free hand over the back of his neck.

Straining her ears to catch what Mitch was saying, Olivia didn't remember the crooked step until she stubbed her toe on it, stumbling and drawing the attention of both men.

Mitch snorted. "Good morning, sleeping beauty."

Running a hand through her tousled hair and sticking her tongue out at her brother, she mustered as much dignity as she could and made a beeline for the pot of coffee across the kitchen. Grabbing a mug from the cupboard, she tried to ignore the probing stares of the men behind her, suddenly very conscious of her puffy eyes.

"You look like shit," Mitch spoke her thoughts aloud.

"Thanks, bro. You always know what to say to make me want to hang myself." She tossed her hair over her shoulder and turned her head slightly to glare at him. He beamed back at her, unrepentant. She shifted her gaze to Mark, who was watching her over the rims of his glasses.

"Hey."

"Hey." He cleared his throat. "How are you?"

"Wonderful."

"I came by to talk to you." He frowned at her and she scrunched her shoulders under his scrutiny, taking a hasty sip from her mug and turning to gaze out of the back window. "Mitch, can I borrow her for a few hours?"

Mitch shrugged. "You're welcome to try and pry her away from the coffee pot, but I can almost guarantee she won't be useful until after noon. Good luck." Pulling his jacket off of the back of one of the kitchen chairs, Mitch walked to the door, patting her shoulder on his way past. "I'm off to work; tell Pop I'll be in late. Rehearsal, so don't hold dinner for me."

"All right."

Mark waited until after the engine of Mitch's car revved to life before crossing to her. "You've been crying," he said, placing his hands on her shoulders and ducking his head to meet her gaze.

Shaking her head, Olivia shrugged off his hands and looking away. "No, I haven't."

"Don't lie, Livvy. It's beneath you." Mark pinned her with a knowing look. "And besides, you're awful at it."

"Are you okay? Seriously."

She grunted and drank deeply from her mug, staring blindly at the peeling paint on the kitchen wall.

"You know Roger's an idiotic ass, right?" He winked, offering her a sympathetic smile. "I'd be all over you," he broke off, laughing. "If it wouldn't feel like necking with my sister."

"Stop it." Olivia set her mug on the counter hard enough to make the coffee slosh over the rim. "I'm _fine_, Mark."

He sobered. "Right." Fidgeting, he picked up her mug and took a sip from it.

"Christ!" Pulling a face, he held the mug out to her. "What is that shit? Battery acid?"

A small smile played at the corner of her mouth. He crossed the short distance between them and took her hand. "Hey, what do you say we go out?"

"Out?" She took the mug back. "Where?"

"The Life Cafe? I'll pay."

"Mark." Olivia pressed her lips together, "You're broke."

His grin disappeared comically. "Oh, yeah. Forgot that."

Offering him a genuine smile, she took a drink of her coffee. "You're always broke; how can you forget it?"

Mark shrugged, a smile lighting his eyes. "By imagining I'm independently wealthy and I choose to live this way."

"That's a horrible fantasy, Mark." Pulling her hair off of her neck and dropping it again, she sighed. "Speaking of wealth...I need to find a job."

"Ha ha." He snorted. "You, a job? That's rich."

She leveled a finger at him "Just watch it, buddy - I could sign you up on any number of hire lists and have you gainfully employed before you could say 'la vie boheme'."

"I'm suitably terrified, I assure you, I'm practically shaking in my shoes." He cocked his head. "You want to go out even if we're both skint broke? Get some air, see the city?"

She sighed, good mood evaporating. "I don't know..."

Grabbing her hand, he dragged her to the base of the stairs. "Get up there and get ready. I'm not taking no for an answer."

"I didn't say no."

He jabbed her in the side with his finger. "Get going, you're wasting daylight."

* * *

He'd forgotten to close the blinds.

Roger came to, blinking rapidly to stop the bright, mid-morning sun from burning his corneas. Groaning, he shoved his head under his pillow.

And suffocated from it.

Sitting up with a spluttering cough his gaze caught on the syringe, tourniquet and spoon laying in a heap near a gutted candle. He sighed and scrubbed his right hand over his hair, staring at the fresh scab in the crook of his left elbow.

God, he felt like shit.

Sighing, he fell back against his pillow staring at the water-mark above his bed until his eyes burned and watered.

He didn't know that he was crying until the sobs tore through him. Curving into himself, he let the tears come, cradling the pillow against his chest.

The monster, sated once, began to whisper again in his ear.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Roger cried harder, hands clutching on the pillow case. "I wont," he whispered. "I won't; I won't; I won't."

But even as he spoke, he knew the words were empty.

He knew he would.

* * *

"Mark, I really shouldn't."

She dug in her heels as Mark, ignoring her protest, continued to drag her up the stairs toward the loft.

"Mark!" Exasperated, she tried to yank her hand from his grip.

"Liv, stop struggling." He glanced over his shoulder at her. "You're going to hurt yourself."

She narrowed her eyes. "I'll show you just who'll be hurt if you don't let me go this instant, Mark Cohen."

"Just..." Mark sighed, "Just talk to him, Livvy. Please?"

"No!" She gave another forceful tug against his hold. "He made his wishes very clear last night, Mark, he doesn't want anything to do with me."

"He was lying, Liv," Mark released her when they were standing next to the front door. "And if anyone can yank his fat head from his scrawny ass, it's you."

What can I possibly say to him?" She gestured angrily. "It's not going to change anything. He'll still hate me and I'll still love-" She caught herself too late.

Mark's eyebrow winged up.

"I care about him, like I care about you." Cursing silently, she tried to cover her previous words. "Or Mitch or any of the gang."

His mouth opened, as if to contradict her, then he sighed and closed it again. "Livvy, Roger's in trouble."

Her heart stuttered. "What? What kind of trouble?"

Looking at his hands, Mark swallowed, hard."He's an addict."

Olivia stared at him dumbly. "Roger's a what?"

"An addict."

Scoffing, an incredulous smile at her lips, Olivia shook her head. "Come on, Mark. What's really wrong with Roger?"

Mark sighed and took her hand once more. "Let's go get some coffee; I'll explain." He looked at the door of the loft before turning around and leading her back the way they had come.


	6. Five

**Chapter Five**

She sat, holding the mug tightly in order to warm her suddenly icy hands.

Mark was watching her with those patient, artist's eyes. Sighing, she sat back against the couch and stared back at him.

The silence stretched on, both of them unwilling, or unable, to break it.

The thought of Roger brought the tears, that she'd just gotten under control, back into her eyes and she clutched her mug tighter. "God, Mark..." Guilt reared up and gripped her by the throat, strangling her words. "I can't...Jesus..."

She'd been mad at him. She'd been furious when he'd been at his most vulnerable, drowning in guilt and grief. She'd been hurt and outraged because some of the poison that had been festering inside of him had ended up on her.

What a bitch she was.

Mark's words swirled in her head, tumbling over one another, clamoring to be heard and processed.

Love. Heroin. HIV. Suicide.

"Who found her?" she asked quietly.

"Roger."

Her eyes shut briefly on a fresh onslaught of tears. "Christ."

Grief swelled in her chest and nearly choked her. The thought of finding Roger in a similar position sent a wave of nausea through her that was so strong she had to set aside her chai.

Mark reached across the couch and took her hand. "Don't cry, Livvy," he pleaded. "I didn't tell you this to make you cry, but to help you understand him, who he is now, better."

She swiped impatiently at the tears gathering in her eyes. "I can't help it."

"I know." His arm looped around her shoulders and tugged her to his chest. "I know, Livvy."

"I have to see him."

Pulling back, Mark surveyed her critically. "Like this? You're a wreck; why don't you take some time-"

"No," she said. "Now."

He sighed and nodded, slowly raising to his feet. Olivia mirrored the action, putting a restraining hand on her friend's shoulder. "I need to do this alone."

"You're joking, right?"

"You know I'm not, Mark."

Opening his mouth to protest, Mark closed it on a quiet oath, holding out his hands and nodding. "All right, okay. I'll leave you two be." He grabbed up his camera. "There's always fresh footage to shoot anyway."

Smiling gratefully, Olivia took his hand and gave it a squeeze. "I love you, Mark."

Returning her smile and her squeeze, Mark leaned in and kissed her cheek. "Go get him, girl."

Shaking her head, she released him and raced from the café.

* * *

His lunch, a bowl of cereal, crumbs from a box of Captain Crunch Collins' had bought at his last vist, sat growing soggy on the metal table. Roger sat some distance off playing a plaintive melody on his guitar. His fingers flew over the strings, his eyes shut, the music flowing from his head and his heart. As the music came to a dramatic crescendo, he joined in, adding words to the rising melody.

"_One great song before I_-" He stopped suddenly, fingers poised over the strings.

Had someone knocked on the door?

He strummed his Fender once more, stopping when he heard the pounding over the quieter notes. Sighing, he set aside the guitar and stood, his bones creaking as he walked toward the noise.

Rubbing at the crick in his neck, he pulled the door open.

She ran at him and, before he could defend himself, wrapped him up in her surprisingly strong arms. His hands dropped to her shoulders and pushed her away to get a better look at her face.

It was flushed; her blond hair touseled, falling from its sloppy braid. But it was her eyes, her beautiful, brown, bloodshot eyes that caught his attention. "Livvy?" The endearment slipped from him before he could stop it. "What are you doing here?"

"I..." Turning away, she pressed a fist to her mouth "I'm sorry."

Cocking his head with a frown, he touched her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Her nod was jerky as she turned back slowly, biting down hard on her trembling bottom lip. "Oh, Roger."

This time when she wrapped her arms around him, he was prepared, unable to deny the effect her tears had on him. He opened his arms and enveloped her in a hug, pressing her face into his chest.

The tears came quietly, her hands clutching at the back of his tee-shirt, her small frame shaking with her muted sobs. Of their own accord, his arms tightened their hold, crushing her against him. He held her, whispering nonsense into her hair, swaying back and forth.

Finally, her tears slowed and dissipated to the occasional hiccup. She stayed in the circle of his arms and he was content to let her.

The feeling of her nuzzling at his chest jolted him out of the hazy comfort that had settled over him.

He pushed her away, his hands still firm, cupping over her shoulders. He released one to hook a finger under her chin, tilting it up to look into her eyes. Roger frowned at her. "Olivia, what the hell?"

Eyes wide, she stepped back, shaking her head. "I'm sorry," she said, running an unsteady hand over her hair. "God, I'm so sorry."

"Stop apologizing," he ordered. "Just tell me what's going on."

"I..." She sniffled quietly and scuffed her sneaker on the hard wood floor. "I'm so sorry about April."

It was like a dump-truck, going eighty on the beltway, had caught him in the stomach. His breath left him in one surprised gasp, and he staggered back a step. "What?" he stuttered so much over the word he had to repeat it. "What did you say?"

Olivia stepped closer and took his hand in hers. "I know what happened. To April."

Jerking his hand free, he turned his back on her, fingers curling into fists. "Who told you?" The headache that he had been fighting all day roared to life, leaving him stunned, churlish and nauseated.

"Does it matter? It was a terrible thing, but everything is going to be okay. You'll see."

He spun around, the movement startling a short yelp out of her. "It's okay? She's dead, Olivia. She killed herself." Stalking closer, he gripped her shoulders hard enough to bruise, shaking her. Images of April surfaced in his mind, making his chest ache. "My girlfriend killed herself in _my _bathroom. It's not okay. It will never be okay!"

Her eyes went wide, startled and wounded. "Roger-"

He let go of her with a jerk, ignoring her stumble and turning back to his guitar. "Go home, Olivia. I don't need your pity."

"I don't pity you," she said. "I'm sorry for your loss, I really am, but, there's so much life yet to be lived. Roger, all this heroin is doing is stealing that life away from you." The pain in her voice called to him, reminding him of the young girl he'd loved. But he looked and saw that young girl staring at him out of grown-up eyes. "You need to stop this..."

His gaze narrowed dangerously. "Mark sent you to try and convince me to quit, didn't he?"

"No, I-"

"Well, you can tell him to fuck off. I don't need life advice from some brat fresh out of college." He turned away again, staring out of the windows of the living area. "You have no business being here, Olivia. Get out."

"No."

Turning back to her, he caught her face in his hand, squeezing, forcing her to meet his eyes. Her small gasp of pain was not lost to him, and it made his temper flare even brighter. "You don't belong here anymore. Leave it, and me, alone." Releasing her suddenly, he watched, with feigned dispassion, as she stumbled back two steps.

For a moment she looked like she was going to leave, but then her pretty features hardened and she crossed her arms across her chest, staying exactly where she stood.

"Get out!" he shouted. "Take all of your pretty ideas and use them on someone who actually gives a shit!"

He pulled the door open, gesturing angrily. She had started crying again, but he steeled himself against the need to comfort her. The urge only served to make him angrier and he took a menacing step toward her. "_Get out_!" he roared.

Like a frightened jackrabbit she bolted from the loft and didn't once look back.

Suddenly exhausted, Roger sagged against the door, and watched her flee down the stairwell. Only when the outer door slammed shut did he go inside, closing his own door behind him.

He moved to the window to watch her run down the street.

* * *

She raced away from the loft, dodging homeless people, trash and parking meters as she ran. Too devastated, even for tears, her breath wheezed in and out of her burning lungs.

Rounding the corner onto 11th Street, her momentum carried her into the path of another rapidly moving person.

She collided with it, the impact sending her body flying backwards. She would have ended up in a heap had the other person not reached out and grabbed her arms.

Blinkng back the tears, expecting to see Mark, she looked up and was shocked to find Officer Murphy smiling down at her.

"Easy, there." he said.

She righted herself, stepped back from his hands and straightened the hem of her shirt. "Thanks."

He cocked his head, offering her a smile that showed off his crooked incisor. "Can I ask you something?"

"If you're asking me out again," she mumbled, "The answer's no."

Shaking his head, he laughed. "I was going to ask you something a little more simple." He offered his hand. "What's your name? I'm Cullen."

She ignored his outstretched hand. "Olivia."

"Olivia." Reaching out, he closed his fingers around her hand and shook it gently. "I like it."

She yanked her hand out of his grip and turned away. Men. Was it a requirement for them to be such asses?

"I'll be sure to tell my dad you approve."

"Olivia!"

She could hear his footsteps following her. "Hold up a minute."

She stopped and glared at him. "I'm not interested. Okay? Get it through your head."

He held out his hands, smiling. "That's not why I'm following you."

"Then what?" She cocked a hip and scrubbed a hand under her nose. "Surely you have better, more official, things to do?"

He shrugged and gave her the same charming grin he'd tried the first time they'd met. "Maybe I'm drawn to you."

With a groan of disgust, spun on her heel. The only thing she wanted now was a hot shower and a nap.

A gentle grip on her arm stopped her. "I'm sorry...I...You're very beautiful and I have a bad habit of acting like an idiot around pretty girls."

"Obviously. Can I go now? I have somewhere I need to be." She shifted as he stared at her. "What?"

He released her slowly, stepping back with his eyes trained on her face. "Are you all right?"

Shaking her head she looked back the direction she'd come. Doing so brought Roger's face back into her mind and fresh tears pricked the back of her eyes. "Do I look all right?" she managed before pressing her palm to he rmouth, stifling the sobs.

He patted her shoulder awkwardly, before wrapping his arms around her and pulling her to him for a hug. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you."

The bitter tang of tears flavored her laugh. "Don't flatter yourself, I was already upset." She pulled away and slanted a measuring look at him from under her lashes.

"You're not in uniform," she said suddenly, her eyes drifting over his tee-shirt and jeans.

"Nope."

"Don't tell me you've been wandering Alphabet City all morning hoping to find me?"

A blush climbed his neck and she was forced to admit she found it adorable.

He stuttered over his answer for a moment before chuckling ruefully and rubbing a hand over his hair. "Well, not _all _morning."

She tipped her head and continued walking down the street, not protesting when he fell in step beside her. "Why?"

"I told you. You're beautiful."

She scoffed. "I though cops needed good eyesight."

"And you've got this attitude." She frowned up at him. "I like it. Want to go get some coffee?"

"Officer Murphy..."

"Cullen."

"What?"

He smiled and took her hand. "My name. It's Cullen."

Sighing, she extricated her hand. "Cullen-"

"Don't say no," he pleaded. "It's just coffee."

Olivia studied him narrowly. He was tall, taller than Roger by five inches, at least. Olive skin, dark eyes and hair; he wouldn't remind her of Roger or his rejections of her. She sighed. "Just coffee?"

He smiled. "Just coffee. You can even talk about what's bothering you." He backtracked suddenly at her dark expression. "Or not. Coffee's fine with me." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"


	7. Six

**Chapter Six**

The crash of a coffee mug against the steel door had Mark leaping aside, just barely avoiding being beaned between the eyes as he walked into the flat. All around him were shards of glass and chunks of broken ceramic. In the middle of it all stood Roger, eyes wild and skin flushed.

"Holy shit!" He gaped at his roommate, ducking out of the way as a drinking glass flew by, shattering against the wall. "What the hell is going on here?"

Roger's eyes were narrowed and deadly. "You told her."

"Told who what?"

Roger launched a dictionary next. "You told Olivia about her."

Mark, kept a keen eye on his friend's throwing arm, edging around the couch and toward Roger. "She's our friend, Rog, she'd have found out eventually. Did you want her hearing about it on the street?"

"Did you tell her about the letter?"

"What letter-" he cut himself off, remembering the envelope, the news that had been the harbinger of all this madness. Sighing, he shook his head. "No."

"So you _can _respect someone's privacy." Roger sent him a furious glare. "I'd wondered."

"She deserves to know."

"Why?" Roger exploded back into motion, picking up another book, this time heaving it at Mark.

Mark dodged it easily, well aware that if Roger had wanted to hit him he would have. "You know why."

As his body fed on the last dregs of the drug in his system, Roger was surly and his roommate was the perfect target. "Damn it, Mark. The girl's been gone five years, done God knows what for five years. We know nothing about her!"

"She's Olivia; of course we know her."

Roger deflated and turned his back. "We know who she used to be: the little girl who followed you around asking about f-stops and dogging the band for guitar lessons." His voice turned wistful. "That girl's gone, Mark. Mark and I can't trust the stranger that's taken her place."

"Why can't you?"

Roger turned to glance at Mark over his shoulder. "I just can't."

"Roger, it all comes down to fear. Life..." Mark bit off a quiet, bitter laugh. "Life is fear."

"It needs to stop."

Mark approached him cautiously and laid a hand on Roger's bowed back. "It can't."

Roger scrubbed a hand over his face. "I went out and bought more heroin."

"Did you use it?"

He nodded. "There's no stopping." His muscles trembled, and he swallowed hard, his mouth dry.

"Some things you can't change, Roger. Fate. Life. The actions of others. But some things you can change." He gave his shoulder a squeeze. "This you can change."

"I can't..." Roger drew in a shuddering breath. "I've tried; I'm not strong enough alone."

Mark smiled encouragingly. "You don't have to be alone. I'm here for you." He glanced at the large dent in their door. "Even if you tried to kill me with that ugly ass mug of Maureen's."

Roger laughed, sniffling loudly. "Yeah, sorry about that."

Mark waved the apology away. "Maybe you should have taken that baseball scholarship to Syracuse, instead of dropping out and running off to be 'the lead singer in a rock and roll band'."

A real laugh escaped Roger's lips and he draped an arm over Mark's shoulder. "Maybe."

Mark looked around the loft, suddenly aware that something was missing. "Where's Olivia?"

Roger's arm stiffened and dropped from his friend's shoulder. "She...had to go."

Mark narrowed his eyes. "What did you do?"

Roger turned away, kicking at the shards of glass into a pile, pretending to straighten the chaos he'd made of the living rooom.

"Roger-"

The phone's shrill ring interrupted Mark's angry remark. Neither man moved to answer it, Mark glaring at Roger and Roger looking anywhere but at Mark until finally the singer shriveled under the burning glower turning his back to stare out of the window.

_"Speak_."

"Damn, don't you boys ever change that message?"

The voice startled both inhabitants of the apartment, and they crossed to the answering machine together, staring at the blinking red light. "It's Collins. Throw down the key."

Mark cast a smile in Roger's direction, all annoyance and animosity forgotten. Their brother was home.

* * *

"You want to do what?" The laugh that escaped as Cullen sipped at his coffee was more of a snort. Offended, she glowered at him and tested the weight of her empty mug, as if preparing to throw it. "I'm sorry," he choked out, setting his drink aside. "But...opening a community center, here? That's...rather pointless don't you think?"

"Pointless?" Olivia shot him an incredulous look over her mug. "The streets are full of drugs, prostitutes and people without homes. That makes having an alternative sound very important, if you ask me."

Cullen sat back, eyeing her with an odd mix of amusement, wonder and confusion. "And you're going to accomplish this all by yourself?"

"If I have to."

He shook his head. "You don't dream small, do you, Olivia?"

"No." she swirled the dregs of her coffee in the bottom of her mug. "My mom taught me to set out for the impossible."

Cullen's eyes widened and Olivia knew the admission had caught him off guard.

"Really?" He smiled and propped his elbows on his knees. "What'd she dream about?"

"That my brother and I would get out of Alphabet City someday." She shrugged one shoulder. "Go to college; change the world - the basics every mother wishes for their children."

"Looks like you're making them come true, I bet she's very proud."

Olivia nodded and set her empty mug down with a quiet, definite click on the table in front of her. "I like to think she would be. She died when I was eight."

His eyes grew as big as saucers. "I'm so sorry..."

Waving it off, she crossed her arms over her chest and looked away. "It was a long time ago."

Cullen sighed, "I'm really putting my foot in my mouth today, aren't I?"

Laughing a little, she cocked her head. "What makes you say that?"

Shrugging he settled back into his own chair, dark eyes trained on her face. "I stalk you, all the way down 11th Street, badger you into having coffee, insult your dreams and bring up bad memories." He made a face. "This is the worst first date on record."

Rolling her eyes, she stood. "It's just coffee. Besides, I've had worse." She stood, brushing her hands on her jeans, eyes flicking to the door, eager for escape. "Well, this was fun. Thanks for the coffee." Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving him staring holes in the back of her head.

* * *

The couch cushions hard against his back, Roger lay quietly, staring up at the ceiling. His argument with Olivia played back through his head, leaving him nauseated and angry all over again. Only this time, the anger was directed at himself.

The way she'd looked at him.

Sighing heavily, he strummed at the guitar resting against his chest, hoping his pain could be flushed away by the music.

"I'm writing one great song before I-" he cut off, listening as his roommates laughed their way back into the loft. He sat up slowly and watched them with guarded eyes.

Laden down with groceries, Mark and Collins were talking amiably as they walked through the door. Their laughter rang out through the apartment and Roger found himself wondering if he had ever been that carefree.

Often, it didn't seem like it.

Setting his guitar aside, he rose to greet them. "Hey brother," he said, holding his arms open for Collins' swift, fierce embrace.

Thumping his back twice, Roger released him and arranged a smile on his face. "You look great. I guess MIT agrees with you?"

"For now," Collins hedged. "All right, what are we doing?"

"I'm playing." Roger stated blandly.

"You can do that any time, Roger," Collins interjected. "Let's go out; find a party. Come back hung-over and sexed-out."

"Nah," Mark vetoed it swiftly, with a discrete glance in Roger's direction. "How about hitting The Vice?"

The suggestion piqued Roger's interest and Collins hummed a little in agreement. "We should call Liv, too. I bet she needs a night out." Mark suggested innocently.

Roger's aquiescence evaporated and he glowered at his roommate who only sent him a pointed stare and a shrug.

Missing the exchange, Collins smirked. "Ah, so the prodigal has returned?" he said, looking at Roger shrewdly. "How fares the catching up?"

"It doesn't," Roger said shortly. "I think I'll just turn in early, Mark."

"Oh, don't be a pussy." Collins caught him by the shoulder when he made to pass by. "Let's go."

* * *

"Livvy," her father's voice jolted her out of the book she'd been reading. Looking up, she spotted him standing just outside her doorframe. "Phone."

Smiling gratefully, she leaned over and lifted the receiver. "This is Olivia."

"Well, well, looks like there's more than one prodigal home this time around."

Her eyes widened, the corners of her mouth turning up at the familiar voice on the other line. "Collins?"

"Hey darlin'," he chuckled. "Surprised?"

"Shocked. Aren't you supposed to be in Boston?"

He scoffed. "And miss hanging with my girl? Hell no. Speaking of..."

Olivia paced back down the hallway, grinning. "When and where?"

"That's my girl. We're hanging at the Vice."

"All right...I'll meet you there in ten."

Collins interrupted before she could hang up. "We'll come get you."

Rolling her eyes, she flopped back on her bed. "Collins. I'm twenty-two, not twelve. I think I can handle a little walk down to the club."

There was a moment of humming silence, then Collins sighed. "Meet us at the loft, and we'll walk over together?"

She pulled the phone back to gape at it in exaggerated shock.

The impossible had happened, had actually happened!

Someone had deigned to compromise with her, and treat her like an adult. It made her do a little jig as she jumped up from her mattress and walked to her closet. She had to find something suitable; fluffy bunny slippers and ratty gym shorts were not proper club attire.

She smiled broadly. Having Collins home would help take her mind off of things. That man could cut a rug like no one else. Digging through her clothes, Olivia hummed under her breath.

She was so enveloped in picking the perfect outfit, she didn't hear her father knock on her doorjamb. "Livvy?"

She whirled around, a sequined halter in one hand and purple tank in the other. "Jesus, Pop!" she cried. "Don't do that!"

He chuckled softly. "Sorry. Where are you going?"

She bit back the childish reply that sprang to her lips and instead turned back to survey the contents of her closet one more time. "Out to the Vice with the guys."

"I thought we agreed you'd stay away from there."

She rolled her eyes before turning her head to stare at him blandly. "You agreed."

His brows beetled. "Olivia-"

She turned, crossing the room and taking his hands. "Daddy. You have to let me be a grown up," she said, softly. "You did a great job of raising me and as much as you may not like it, I can take care of myself now."

Her father blew out a breath that was not quite steady. "Damn." He smiled when Olivia giggled quietly. "You really have grown up."

She grunted when he took her into his arms and squeezed her tight. "Pop," she grunted. "I can't breath."

He pulled back and smiled mistily at her. "My little girl," he whispered.

She chuckled and hugged him again. "Pop," she murmured, burying her face in the side of his neck. "I'll always be your little girl." Pulling back she winked at him. "But get out of here, I need to change. Collins only gave me twenty minutes to get over there."

Laughing, her father ruffled her hair and stepped back. "Be careful, baby."

* * *


	8. Seven

_We're approaching my favorite chapter thus far - This story is moving along decently well, and I think that it's getting better with each chapter. Of course, all you lurkers out there (yes, I know who you are - I have connections) should pop in and give me some feedback. Let me know what I can be doing better. This is my first AU story for Rent, and my second in the fandom, so I've got a lot to learn! Don't be shy, kids! _

**Chapter Seven**

Roger sat by the window, unconsciously scanning the street for Olivia. Collins and Mark were sitting on the couch chatting eagerly back and forth. They talked over each other, laughing, gesturing. Mark seemed more alive than he had been in months.

Mark guffawed loudly, sending a twinge of guilt shivering through his gut. He hadn't been the best conversationalist of late, hell he'd been horrible at communicating even when April had been alive.

And after her death...

He swallowed hard, blinking to beat the sudden sting of tears back. He glanced over at Mark. He'd make it up to him, Roger assured himself.

Unsure, he shifted his gaze back out of the window and saw a figure running toward the loft, a hood covering its face.

"Guys," he said woodenly. "She's here."

Minutes later the door rolled back. "What's crackin' bitches?" she cried, mimicking Collins' traditional greeting. Mark and Collins jumped up off of the couch.

Roger stayed seated, eyes trained on her slender figure. Her hair was pulled back this time, he noted. It made her look older. Untouchable. Entirely too appealing. He shifted his gaze off of her hip-hugger jeans and out the loft's windows before dropping it to the hand gripping the neck of his guitar.

He plucked a string violently between his thumb and forefinger. Damn it, this was all her fault.

He looked up again, startled by her burst of laughter. Collins had his arms secure around her waist and was swinging her in circles. Roger's eyes narrowed and he dropped his gaze back to the guitar in his lap.

Moments later he was staring at her again, unable to tear his gaze from her flushed face and glowing eyes.

"Hell girl, you've grown." Collins pulled back and surveyed the face, bared now that the hood had fallen back. "Jesus, maybe we shouldn't go to the Vice." He winked at Mark. "I don't feel like beating men off of you. Do you, Mark?"

"Nope."

"Roger?"

He opened his mouth to say something, but snapped it closed when he almost blurted out an emphatic yes to Collins' question.

"No." He stood abruptly. "Are we going, or aren't we? I'm getting bored just sitting around listening to you assholes jaw back and forth." He stalked past the trio.

"What crawled up in his ass and died?" Collins wondered as they followed after him.

* * *

The bass filled the air, curling Olivia's toes and making her mouth tip up in a smile. They walked around the corner, and took their place in line. The crowd that had assembled, milled around, already loose and heading towards tipsy. Olivia watched, bemused as a man with a large afro argued, amiably, with his companions.

Collins nudged her. "How's your brother?"

She shifted her gaze and smiled slightly, her mind very much occupied with the morosely silent man standing behind her.

"Good. I think he's rehearsing tonight." She shook her head at the guitar riff that floated through the open door as someone walked into the club. "Obviously."

"Trying too hard," Mark agreed, tossing a look over his shoulder to where Roger hung back. "Don't you think, Rog?"

Roger's eyes narrowed and he flicked them toward Olivia before shrugging and dropping his gaze back to the pavement, ignoring the question.

"I'm sure you'd do better," Olivia said, with an apprehensive glance at Mark.

Snorting, Roger jerked one shoulder, eyes still glued to the pavement between his shoes.

She sighed and crossed her arms, a plethora of replies flying through her mind. She bit her tongue. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't say any of them. Not with the ghost of his girlfriend between them.

"Hey Kenny," she said instead, looking up at the hulking bouncer. "How's it going?"

"Busy."

She tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear and smiled. "Got room in there for us?"

"No."

Her brows beetled. "No?" The finality in Kenny's tone annoyed her, but she shook her head to clear the feeling away.

"Come on, Ken, you've known me for most of my life," she wheedled. Kenny just crossed his arms and continued staring out over her head, unimpressed.

"My brother's one of the mainstays of the entertainment here. I know you could let us through."

Kenny shrugged. "Sorry doll face, the place is packed tonight. I can't just let you guys slide on in. I'd have a riot on my hands." He smiled ruefully at the men flanking her on either side. "Sorry."

Olivia huffed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "Fine." Turning, with as much dignity as she could muster, she walked away from the door and to the end of the line.

Mark chuckled and patted her back. "It's all right, not like we have anywhere else to be, right?"

Huffing out a laugh, she scowled at the top of Kenny's head, just barely visible above the crowd. "Yeah." She crossed her arms over her chest.

She found her gaze drawn to the Roger's slumped form. His face was pale and drawn; it wore boredom like a mask. She let her eyes travel the length of him, and even through the bagginess of his clothes she could tell he'd grown thinner since she'd been gone. It made her angry.

What right did he have to treat himself this way? When she loved him more than pretty much anything in the world, what right did he have to starve himself to skin and bones, filling his veins and his mind with poisons?

Roger hummed under his breath, tipping backwards until his shoulders leaned against the wall. "Can I go home now?"

"No!" Olivia exploded. "You're going to sit right there and wait." Turning on her heel she stalked toward the back of the building.

"Hey!" Mark called at her retreating back. "Where are you going?"

Collins shot Roger a reproachful look when she was lost from sight. "What was that about?"

"What?"

"You pissed her off."

Roger gaped at his friends. "Me? It was baldy up there not letting us in." He shook his head. "This is stupid. I want to go home."

Mark shook his head and clapped his shoulder. "Just be cool, Rog. You know you're not going anywhere." He slanted him a look. "Or have you forgotten what a temper our Livvy has?"

No, Roger hadn't forgotten. The more he was around the woman, the more he realized he hadn't forgotten about her. "Fucking dumb," he grumbled, slumping back against the wall.

They stood there for nearly ten minutes before Mark suggested one of them go look for her. "I vote Roger."

Roger glared at his roommate. "No."

"Well I vote for you too," Collins said. "So you lose any way you slice it."

"Fucking dumb," he repeated. "I'm not doing it."

She appeared just as they opened their mouth to argue with him. "Let's go."

"Go?" Mark parroted. "Go where?"

"In," she said, gesturing. Catching their confused expressions, she shrugged a shoulder. "The manager owes me one."

"How can he owe you anything?" Mark wondered as he followed her down the back alley. "You've been gone nearly six years."

She shrugged again, pulled open the large, metal door, ushering them inside. "Don't worry about it, Mark."

Collins pinned her with a stern frown. "You didn't sell your kidney to get us in, did you?"

Shaking her head with a smile she waved a hand, encouraging them in. "Just a simple favor between friends."

Mark rolled his eyes. "He didn't ask you to come back to work, did he?"

She shook her head and hooked her arm through his. "Nope, and I'd say no if he did anyway."

"Good." Despite Roger's quiet voice, the words cut through the noise and made Olivia gape at him. Catching herself, she closed her mouth and twirled a finger through one of the strands of hair hanging over her shoulder. Roger shifted under the scrutiny. "This is no place for a girl like you."

Olivia's eyes narrowed and she opened her mouth to say something undoubtedly cutting, but the guitar player broke out into a screaming riff that seemed hopelessly out of step with the rest of the band. The atrocious playing distracted her enough that she lost the thread of her fury.

"God, he's awful," she said instead, wrinkling her nose.

"Yeah." Roger smirked at her. "I'm sure you could do better, what with all those lessons you pawned off of us."

Off-balance from the sudden wave of heat that sarcastic curl of lips sent through her system, Olivia smiled back shakily. "Yeah..."

They wove their way through the crowd to a small, corner table away from the stage. The dance floor was packed and the music pulsed, the lead singer's vocals barely audible over the din.

"Speaking of lessons," Mark piped up suddenly. "Livvy, you still owe me for those photography lessons I gave you the summer before you left for California."

"Oh really?" His smug expression evaporated at the mischievous light in her eyes. "Then I suppose I should charge you for your lessons."

"What lessons?" Collins wanted to know, flipping his chair so he was straddling it, his arms draped over the back.

"You don't want to hear this."

Suddenly interested, Roger waved his hand in Mark's face at his protest. "Yes, we do," he contradicted. "What lessons?"

Olivia, cleared her throat, embarrassed now that she had the whole table's attention, cleared her throat. "Well..."

"Olivia, if you value your life," Mark threatened, "don't say another word."

"What're you going to do, film her to death?"

She laughed a little at Collins joke, but her eyes were captured in Roger's gaze; the intensity of it making her shiver despite the oppressive warmth of the crowded club. Since they'd sat down he had yet to take his eyes off of her.

"Are you going to tell us, or do I have to go and get a round at the bar first?" Collins demanded after a drawn out silence.

Shaking herself, she slanted a look over at Mark who was red up to his ears. "He was dating that girl Vivian, you know, the one with big hair?"

"Before Maureen." The trio ignored Mark's head thumping against the table. "Yeah, we know the one."

Olivia laughed a little. "Mark was nervous about their first date, afraid that he would...be inadequate."

Roger gave the back of Mark's head a dark stare. "What kind of inadequate?" he wondered icily. Mark didn't lift his head and Olivia remained oblivious to the underlying violence of the tone.

Collins shot Roger a raised-brow look before focusing back on Olivia.

"He was deathly afraid he was a horrible kisser. So...I gave him a few lessons." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, hoping to hide her flaming cheeks.

"And was he?" Collins grinned wickedly, making Olivia giggle.

"I was only fifteen at the time, what the hell did I know about kissing?" She laughed when Mark raised his head and glared at her.

* * *

He watched the way the muted light reflected off of her hair, the way her eyes shone as she laughed. It wasn't fair. The clutch in his belly made his scowl deepen and he purposely looked away, toward the stage. The twinge that tore through him then was much more violent and far less pleasant.

He cursed under his breath and dropped his eyes to the table top.

A toe nudged his foot and he looked up into the confused eyes of his roommate. Shrugging one shoulder, he pasted on a crooked, false smile. It made Mark frown, but before he could say anything, Roger grabbed up his empty pint glass. "Looks like we need refills."

Collins laughed. "You're determined to make me head back to Boston broke, brother."

Roger chuckled darkly. "We're all broke."

Olivia sighed and leaned back in her chair. "Not all of us."

He eyed her. Just what had she meant by that? He fingered the wad of bills he had tucked into his jacket pocket, his eyes trained on her face.

Mark cleared his throat, pulling Roger out of his staring contest. It wasn't until Roger looked away that he noticed Olivia gazing at him just as intently.

"We're not dancing."

Olivia looked away from Roger and wrinkled her nose at Mark. "Who'd want to dance with you?" she wondered with a grin.

He sniffed. "I'll have you know that I'm a fantastic dancer."

"Did the rabbi's daughter tell you that?" Olivia chuckled, shaking her head. "My standards are a little higher than those found at the Scarsdale Jewish Community Center, Marky-Mark." She stood and held out a hand.

Mark eyed her hand. "What?"

"Prove it."

"Prove what?"

"This self-purported dance prowess," she said winking at Collins who was smiling brightly behind the hand propped against his chin.

Roger just sat back, veiled in shadow. His heart gave a funny little hop when Mark accepted, giving her saucy smile and a off-the-cuff remark.

When they disappeared into the crush of bodies, Collins turned those dark eyes on him.

Roger held up his hand. "Let it go, Collins. Okay?"

Shaking his head, Collins stood as well. "You've always been a damn fool where she's concerned." He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Roger to his thoughts.

He caught glimpses of her while she danced, spinning into and out of sight so often he was beginning to think she was a mirage.

And wouldn't that be perfect? Seeing her with his waking eyes as well as in his dreams at night.

Snorting, he snagged Mark's glass of half-finished ale and downed a mouthful.

He had no right to her, he told himself firmly, squeezing the glass tightly when he saw Mark bend her into an exaggerated dip and she laughed up at him. Those two were far more suited for each other.

Roger would only destroy her. The way he destroyed everything else he loved.

No. It was better for her if he kept his distance.

He felt her laughter shoot straight through him and had to set aside the glass in his hand to clutch at his chest.

Better for both of them.

He straightened in his seat when they returned to the table, Olivia gasping for breath and clinging to Mark for support.

"I said prove it to me, not kill me," she complained, beaming at her friends. "Jesus...I can't breathe." Without a thought she stole the pint glass in front of Roger and downed the remainder of the drink.

Roger's muscles tightened as he watched the glass return from her lips to the table. There was lip gloss on the rim, where his mouth had been only moments before. Swallowing hard, he attempted to push those thoughts from his mind.

"Roger." Her voice tore him out of his fantasy and he blinked at her. She smiled. "Want to dance?"

"What?" He blinked again, mind still torn between processing the current conversation and his torrid daydream of having those lips pressed against his skin. He shifted and ducked his head to hide his burning cheeks. "What?" he repeated.

"Dance?" Olivia chuckled under her breath, her eyes bright and curious. "You'll be a better partner than these two," she waved her hand at the other two, who looked offended. "You wouldn't kill me with spins and dips."

"You're just jealous because I'm a better dancer than you," Mark interjected, saving Roger from having to reply.

Shaking her head, she pouted, reminding Roger of the sixteen-year-old he'd known so well. "I am too a good dancer!"

Roger bit his own lip to keep the groan building in his chest from slipping past his tongue. Somehow the pout that had been endearing and completely harmless on a sixteen-year-old was now, on a twenty-two-year-old, as deadly as it was sexy.

"Come on, Rog," she wheedled. "Dance with me?"

He cleared his throat, lest the words come out in a squeak. As it was, his voice was barely a croak. "I don't think so."

She opened her mouth to protest.

"Excuse me?"

The quartet turned their heads and regarded the man Roger identified as the horrible guitarist. A snarl formed on his lips before he could stop it.

He yelped quietly when a shoe connected with his shin. His eyes darted across the table where Olivia was glaring at him. "Be nice!" she mouthed before turning her attention to the tall red-head.

"Yes?"

He smiled winningly down at her. "I saw you out there while I was playing; those were some hot moves."

Rolling her eyes at Mark, she grinned up at the guitar player. "Most of them were not done by choice."

"Is there a point to this?" Roger demanded, eyes narrowed into slits, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Roger." Olivia scolded, making that funny little twinge in his chest come back, stronger this time. "What can I do for you...?"

"Nick," the other man supplied.

"What can I do for you, Nick?"

He shifted from foot to foot, his eyes drifting over the three men, who were all wearing the same stony expression. "I...ah...wanted to know if you would like to dance."

"No, she wouldn't."

Roger was surprised when those words slid past the strangle-hold he had on his tongue.

Olivia swiveled around to glare at him. Her eyes were dark and angry; he couldn't help thinking that she looked beautiful when she was in a temper, perhaps even more than she usually did. Then she was accepting Nick's offer and was disappearing out of his sight, heading toward the dance floor.

"What the hell?" He rose to go stop her, only to be pulled down by Collin's heavy grip on his shoulder.

"Stop making an ass of yourself," he hissed. Mark was watching him with wide eyes. "What does it matter who she dances with?"

He wanted to shout that it did matter, but the idea that it _did _frightened him into a sullen silence.

Then he spoke, a weak denial, even to his own ears. "It doesn't." He crossed his arms once more.

Despite his words, he could not keep his eyes off of the couple as them moved in and out of the bodies in time with the music.


	9. Eight

**Chapter Eight**

"Your friends are a little over-protective," Nick commented, spinning her around again. Olivia sighed heavily and looked over her shoulder, longingly, toward the table where her friends were sitting. Somehow, even this topic was preferable to the man's constant praise of himself and his skill as a guitarist.

She caught sight of Roger, the dark frown marring his face visible even through the smoke. Her lips pursed. Damn him, this was all his fault! She had been about to refuse Nick's offer when the baboon opened his big mouth and answered for her.

This, right here, was what you called cutting of your nose to spite your face.

She turned her attention back to the man currently holding her waist in a grip that bordered on painful. As it was, it screamed possession.

"Yeah," she conceded, "They have this annoying habit of thinking they're my brothers."

Nick smiled. "I know what you mean. My band mates are always on me to be careful who I get with during concerts - never know what girl is looking to ride on my coat-tails to fame and fortune."

It took every ounce of willpower she possessed to not roll her eyes at him. "I suppose that is something someone should be wary of," she commented vaguely, wishing that Roger would get his head out of his ass and come rescue her.

"I haven't seen you around before." Nick's hand slipped from her waist to the curve of her hip, his less-than-nimble fingers brushing her rear, and Olivia found herself wishing that anyone would come to her rescue. "What's your story?" he asked, running his fingers over the seam of her back pocket. Bristling, she reached behind her back and dragged his hand back into position. He blinked down at her.

"What?"

"I don't appreciate people grabbing me."

He laughed and shrugged a shoulder. "Sorry, you've got such a nice one, I couldn't help myself."

She gaped at him. "I'm sorry." Disgusted, she moved against his grip and disentangled herself from him. "I don't feel much like dancing anymore."

He chuckled again and grabbed her arm, pulling her back against him. "No need to be coy," he murmured, rubbing his nose against her cheek. "I know what you want. You're the one."

She jerked away and stared at his face. A small bubble of fear grew in her belly, her muscles tensing. A lifetime of warnings, lectures and lessons from the men in her life ran through her mind. Mouth dry, Olivia swallowed and managed to speak. "The one what?"

"The one who gets to be my girl for the night."

Fear evaporated into anger. She shoved at him, hissing, "Let me go, right now."

Nick tilted his head. "Why?"

"I'm no one's girl for the night and you've got some nerve, presuming that I'm even remotely interested." She pulled against his hold. "Let me go!"

He released her so suddenly she stumbled backwards, crashing into a hard chest on her way to the floor. Hands gripped her waist, gently this time, stopping her descent. She sagged against him gratefully when Roger's voice washed over her.

"Is there a problem here?"

She regained her feet, but didn't move. Roger seemed just as content to leave his hands where they were, his simple hold erasing the memory of Nick's heavy-handed touch. Looking over Roger's shoulder, Olivia saw Mark and Collins flanking him.

Nick seemed to notice as well. He paled slightly and ran his long-fingered hand through his hair. "We were just dancing," he said, taking a step back from the angry glares.

"Looked to me like you were harassing her," Mark commented, arms tensed at his sides.

"And grabbing her ass," Collins added, clenching his fists menacingly.

Nick took another step in retreat. "She wanted it."

Roger scoffed and released Olivia suddenly. "Obviously you can't read women any better than you can read music."

"What did you say?" Nick's face suffused with color and he took a step forward this time, eyes on Roger's face. Olivia froze.

"Come on guys..." she turned and gripped Roger's forearms, the muscles beneath her fingers taut. "Let's get out of here." He shook off her grip and stepped around her, eyes narrowing.

"I said a two-year-old could play guitar better than you."

Olivia shut her eyes and swore quietly. "Come on," she tried again, gripping the back of Roger's shirt and tugging. "Let's go."

"You think you're any better?" Nick's lip curled.

Roger's grin was feral, and his hands clenched into fists. "Oh, I know I am."

"Prove it," Nick snarled. He stalked away, climbing the stage and grabbing up the mike. "Hey! Quiet down, guys! We've got a man here who says he can play the pants off of me."

"And then some," Roger muttered. Collins snorted.

"Do you want to hear him try?" Nick shouted. An obliging roar came from the dance floor. "Come on, then." He waved the mike at the stage. "It's all yours."

Olivia gripped him tighter. "Roger..."

He looked over his shoulder at her, the snap of rage in his eyes turning them nearly black, and she released him, his shirt sliding through nerveless fingers.

Mark took her arm as Roger mounted the stairs onto the stage. "Let's get a good seat."

Collins fell in step with them on her other side as they moved in front of the stage.

Roger stood motionless behind the mike stand. His already pale skin went ashen and Olivia gasped as he swayed a little on his feet. She shrugged off Mark's hand and moved to go to him.

"No." Collins' quiet voice stopped her. "Let him be."

"Come on, Roger!" Mark urged loud enough for the other man to hear.

Nick snickered into the mike. "What's the matter, man, is the big bad stage more frightening than you thought?"

Roger jolted, as if being torn from some reverie and glared over his shoulder at the red-headed musician. "Kid, I'd recommend you just sit down, shut up and start taking notes."

A chorus of 'oohs' from the crowd made a sardonic smile curl Roger's lips as he accepted the guitar from the bass player, throwing the strap over his head.

"How are we doing tonight?" he spoke easily, but Olivia could see that his fingers trembled. She, again, had to quell the urge to go to him. Behind her, Mark squeezed her shoulder. "This is a little something I wrote...a while ago."

He bent his head to the strings. His fingers began to move, but the notes were too quiet for anyone to hear. A hush fell over the club as everyone's attention was riveted on the man center stage. Almost imperceptibly, the notes grew in volume and intensity. Olivia recognized Musetta's Waltz and tilted her head toward Collins. "What is he doing?"

Collins shrugged, curious gaze trained on the stage.

"Just wait," Mark suggested.

Almost as soon as the words were spoken, Roger's fingers began moving swiftly over the strings, pulling out one beautifully bittersweet note after another. "_One song_," he sang quietly. "_Glory. One song before I go._"

"_One song to leave behind. Find, one song._" His eyes slipped closed. "_One last refrain, glory, from the pretty boy front man_." Olivia found herself unable to look away as he swayed a little under the bright lights. "_Who wasted opportunity._"

The bass player shrugged on his shoulder strap and joined in, blending his sound with Roger's haunting acoustic. "_One song, he had the world at his feet._" His eyes opened suddenly and he was staring, sightlessly at Olivia. A grimace of pain crossed his face. "_In the eyes of a young girl, a young girl._"

Olivia lifted a hand to her mouth to stifle her gasp. Mark's fingers pressed painfully against her collarbone.

April.

"_Find glory, beyond the cheap, colored lights. One song, before the sun sets, glory, on another empty life_." Roger's brows were furrowed and his eyes squeezed shut, as if the words were being ripped, unwillingly, from his chest. "_Time flies. Time. Dies_."

The drummer, hidden in shadow, picked up the beat and soon, a second guitar, electric, mated perfectly with Roger's acoustic sound. "_Glory_."

"_Find one song, glory, a song that rings true, truth like a blazing fire. An eternal flame_." His eyes, open once more were trained on Olivia's face, and she was oblivious to everything; the sounds from the crowd, the feel of Mark's nails digging into her skin, the tears running down her face. All she saw, all she felt, all she knew, was Roger's burning gaze searing its way through to her soul.

"_Find, one song a song about love, glory, from the soul of a young man, a young man._" By this time, the crowd was cheering, whistling, clapping along with the beat, and Nick was glaring ferociously at the side of Roger's head. Olivia smiled at Roger's triumph, tears of pride, replacing the ones of pain, welling up and spilling down her cheeks.

"_Find, the one song before the virus takes hold, glory, like a sunset. One song to redeem this empty life. Time flies, and then no need to endure anymore._" He held the note out a bit, making her hair stand on end. Her eyes slid shut and she pressed a balled fist over her heart, to soothe the ache.

"Oh, Roger," she breathed. Her eyes opened for a moment, listening to his quiet panting breath in the microphone. Then his mouth opened and the ache in her chest spread lower, until the pain in his voice felt like a living being inside of her.

"_Time dies_." He hit his last note, the final chord struck, his hand, holding the guitar pick loosely between his thumb and forefinger, stretched toward the floor, head bowed, his eyes closed and cheeks wet.

There was a deafening silence for five humming seconds and then it was pandemonium. The crowd burst into applause. Roger went even more pale than he was already and had the bassist not reached out and clapped him on his shoulder, he might have fallen to the stage.

Olivia shrugged off Mark's hold and vaulted the stairs to get to him. When she reached his side, she extended a hand, laying it gently on his arm. Seconds later, he jerked away, only to pull her to him and bury his face in her neck, weeping silently.

Roger's storm of tears passed quickly but he seemed as reluctant to release her as she was to let him go. His forehead pressed against the side of her neck, he sniffed quietly. She felt his shuddering breaths skitter hotly across her skin.

Then came the clapping.

Olivia shifted her hold on Roger to peer over at Nick who, red in the face, continued to slap his palms together mockingly. "Extraordinary," he said, beaming at her. "I bet the ladies love that one - do you cry after all your songs, or just that particular one?"

She gripped Roger's shirt tightly when his head reared back as if he had been prodded. Nick continued to grin, though it was a malicious smile, and the gleam in his eyes was anything but friendly.

"Personally, I would have waited to burst into tears until I got home, pretty boy." Nick peered down at his nails. "But then, I have balls."

Olivia opened her mouth, prepared to rage at the ignorant little bastard when Roger pulled from her grip. Straightening, he made no move to wipe at his eyes. The tears glittered on his cheeks and the expression in his eyes was enough to make her throat swell closed. Roger shrugged the guitar off and handing it to the bass player who hovered nearby. The man took it and gaped at the pair, looking for all the world that he wanted to say something - but too scared to actually do it.

"Roger..." Olivia cautioned.

"Quiet, Olivia," Roger ordered in a soft voice. She shivered and took an involuntary step backwards. "You know less about me than you do about playing guitar." He poked Nick in the chest. "So I'd suggest shutting up."

"Or what?" Nick shoved him in return.

"Guys..." Olivia glanced around nervously for Mark and Collins.

"Or I'll make you." Roger said it so matter-of-factly she was almost unprepared. But, luckily, she saw his body coiling, like a cobra ready to strike.

"Roger!" She grabbed his balled fist in both of her hands and tugged. "Let's go. He's not worth it, he's a fucking moron."

"Watch what you say, bitch," Nick snapped.

Roger tore his hand out of her grip and swung at the other man before she could blink. The sound of flesh and bone connecting with flesh and bone reverberated through the club.

Collins sprang into action, seizing Roger about the waist. "Come on, Rog," he ordered, grunting as he wrenched his friend away. "Chill."

Mark moved to Olivia's side and took her arm. "Let's go," he whispered in her ear.

Before they could beat a hasty retreat, Nick flew at Roger, with his hands out-stretched. The wiry guitarist slipped from Collins' grasp and met him in the middle of the stage, their bodies colliding with a sickening thud.

They rolled across the floor, arms and legs flailing as they attempted to land punches anywhere they could reach. The grunts and groans were drown out by the shouting. Mark, Collins, the bouncers, even herself. Everyone was screaming; it was hurting Olivia's ears.

"Stop it!" she hollered, jerking away from Mark and rushing over to the pair. "Stop this!" She grabbed for something, anything of Roger's, that she could lay her hands on. Closing her arm around his bicep she tugged mightily. "Roger! Cut it out."

The pair rolled again, knocking her off of her feet and into the drum set. A snare and a cymbal went crashing to the floor as she fell.

Curses and punches flying, Roger hauled Nick to his feet and planted a fist in the side of his jaw, sending the other man reeling. Nick collided with an amplifier, tumbling end over end into the side of a speaker. The crash and screech over the sound system made Olivia cringe and fall back onto the floor. Mark scrabbled his way over the debris, reaching out for her hand.

"Livvy!" His hand closed over hers. "You okay?"

She nodded shakily and he pulled her off of the floor and into his arms. "Let's get out of here."

Olivia allowed herself to be guided through the melee, dodging that the bouncers that had rushed over to break up the fight. Collins was standing in the middle of it all, grabbing for Roger, attempting to pull him off of Nick and avoid the grasping hands of the bouncers as they struggled to control the uproarious crowd.

Finally, Collins was forced to hoist him over his shoulder and make a break for the door. Mark and Olivia met him there, Roger still flinging curses at the other guitarist.

"Let's blow this popsicle stand," Collins joked, bounding through the door Olivia held open for him. With a shared wry glance back over their shoulders, Mark and Olivia hastened to follow him.


	10. Nine

**Chapter Nine**

Roger was still livid when they rounded the corner on 11th Street and were nearly back at the loft spitting out curses with venom that surprised and unnerved her.

"For Christ's sake, Collins, put me down!"

"You're a damned fool," Collins shot back, setting the other man on his feet. "And a fucking heavy one at that."

They continued swiftly down the street toward the loft, paired off, Roger in front, Olivia and Mark and Collins behind.

Olivia stared at the back of Roger's head, her mind whirling. The visceral notes of the song still reverberated through her belly and her heart had not fully recovered from seeing Roger sparring with Nick. He'd beat up a guy for her.

Scoffing, she shoved that thought from her mind. She wasn't fifteen anymore, and Roger didn't beat up the asshole for her, but for his own pride. So like a man. She huffed out a breath and crossed her arms over her chest. Mark took a gentle hold on her arm. "Are you all right?" he asked quietly.

"Fine," she murmured. "Are you?"

He laughed. "Collins and Roger had the situation handled before I could get my hands dirty."

She smiled back, wickedly. "Good, I would have hated to see you get hurt."

"You're a mean bitch, you know that, Liv?" he said poking her in the side.

"Living in L.A.'ll do that to you."

Silence fell over the quartet as they made their way into the building.

* * *

The silence reigned until they were behind the door of the loft. Olivia, with a groan, sank back onto the couch. "My brother's going to murder me." Her eyes popped open. "Shit. Sheridan's going to murder me."

"Sheridan?"

"The manager."

Mark frowned at her. "Exactly what did you promise him, Livvy?"

Her tired eyes narrowed. "That's none of your damn business." Groaning, she rolled over and buried her face in a dusty pillow. "Shit. Shit. Shit."

"I'm going to bed," Roger declared suddenly, turning to go. She pushed herself up so she could see him over the back, catching him wince and grab for his side. All at once furious, Olivia sprang off of the couch and was upon him before he could protest.

"You stupid idiot! What the hell were you thinking?"

She didn't care that he was hissing in pain with every blow she landed. A few glanced off of some fresh bruises and she was rewarded with a yelp and a curse. Finally, his hand snagged one of her wrists in a firm, but gentle grip. "Jesus, Liv," he gasped. "Calm down!" She struggled against his hold.

"Why'd you have to go and act like a complete dumbass, huh?" she demanded, punching him in the stomach. His breath whoofed out as he grabbed her left wrist, pinioning it with the other, still clutched in his hand.

"He started it."

Olivia stared up into his deadpan , she sighed heavily and dropped her forehead to his chest with a thump. "Moron."

He released his hold, a weak smile flickering over his face.

Now more weary than pissed, Olivia stepped away from him, before he could step away from her. "Next time someone insults you," she ordered. "Just walk away."

"I was only doing it to protect you," he stated blandly.

"Don't lie, Roger." Olivia muttered, attempting to comb her fingers through her hopelessly tangled hair. "I'm tired."

"You're tired?" Collins laughed. "Who had to carry that little bastard two blocks?" Roger glowered at him as he cocked a hip and hooked his thumbs through his belt loops.

Chuckling, she dropped her hand and crossed to him. "Poor baby. Do you need me to kiss it and make it better?"

Collins, playing his part well, batted his eyes and leaned closer. "Would you?"

Biting her lip to keep herself from laughing, she pushed up onto her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "There."

"Well, that sucked," he complained, turning to Mark. "Did you see that?"

"Yeah. You've gotten more action than I have in the past six weeks." Rolling his eyes, Mark shucked his jacket and tossed it on the back of the couch. "It is late. I suppose one of us should walk you home, Livvy."

"That's all right," she said. "I can walk myself."

"No."

"But-"

"No." Collins agreed.

"Seriously guys..."

Roger clapped a hand on her shoulder. "Accept an escort or stay here. Those are your options, Olivia." She had to struggle to remain indignant when every fiber of her being was focused on the part of her body touching his.

"I don't like those options," she said finally, tone sulky.

Mark chuckled. "Tough cookies, kiddo."

She sighed. "I suppose I should stay here, then. As we're all so tired." She caught Mark's smug expression and rolled her eyes at him, planting a fist on her hip in exasperation. "Well, I can't very well make Collins walk me seven blocks when he's carted Roger's fat ass around, now can I?"

"I'm not fat!"

"Mark's healthy. He could take you," Collins suggested helpfully.

"And he'd protect me, how?"

"Hey!"

"No offense, Mark, but you're in as much danger on these streets after dark as I am."

Mark scowled at her. "Am not."

"All the same," she said, rubbing her forehead. "I'll just crash here and head home in the morning."

"Fine." Roger shrugged and turned toward the hallway. "I'm going to bed now."

"It is getting late," Olivia agreed, her eyes trained on Roger's back as he moved to the hallway.

"Why don't you take my bed," Mark offered. "I'll sleep on the couch."

Shaking her head, she turned away from the tempting sight of Roger's retreating form and moved to the couch, arranging the dusty pillows. "I'm fine here."

"You sure?" Collins asked.

"Yeah, we'll see you guys in the morning." She waited until the two men disappeared to their own rooms before flopping onto the couch. Groaning, she lifted the hem of her shirt and scowled at the bruise curving from her hip and up her back. "Damn drums. I knew there was a reason I preferred guitars."

She grabbed for Mark's jacket and draped it over herself. The darkened loft was quiet, water running in the bathroom and someone singing quietly were her thoughts' only company as she stared off into space. Finally, her eyes drifted shut, and she slept.

* * *

Olivia woke before the sun. Groaning, she stretched, trying to force the crick from her neck. The couch was as uncomfortable as it looked, she decided. She sat up and set Mark's jacket aside. Shivering in the chill of the loft, she scrubbed her hands over her arms, peering around in the semi-darkness.

Spying the clock on the wall she winced. Four-fifteen. Her father was probably beside himself. Cursing quietly, she swung her legs off of the couch and stood suddenly. For all he'd agreed to treat her like an adult, he was still her father, and she was still his little girl.

She wasn't deluded enough to think one conversation would keep him from going ballistic all over her backside if she didn't get back before he left for work.

Grunting, she tugged on Mark's jacket and spent nearly ten minutes trying to find a piece of paper to write him a note. Finally, she snagged a mangled envelope, scribbling her message in one corner. Her eye shifted to the return address and the pen fell from her fingers. New York City Department of Public Heath and Environment. It was addressed to Roger.

Roger?

Her eyes widened and she pressed her hand to her mouth.

April.

HIV.

She picked up and set down the pen three times before she was able to finish off her message before setting them both aside and straightening. Debating with herself, she tucked her hands in the pockets of Mark's coat, hunching her shoulders into the oversized material as she headed for the front door. She peered down the darkened hallway when she passed by it, stopping and chewing on the inside of her cheek as she stood for a moment. Her hand pressed against the cold metal of the door, torn between leaving and going to check on Roger.

Finally, her heart out-fought her head and she turned to walk silently down the hall.

Mark still talked in his sleep, she noted, and Collins snored as loud as the subway. Giggling softly, she moved to Roger's room. Unlike the others, it was deathly quiet behind Roger's wooden door.

Hesitantly, she reached out and pushed the door open a crack. She pulled back when the door gave a screeching groan as it slid back on hinges that were in desperate need of oil. Biting her lip, she waited, but the mound on the bed didn't move. Breathing a sigh of relief, she stepped over the threshold, only to retreat when he groaned and rolled over.

She stared into the hazy darkness of the room for a few moments, counting breaths and tiny snorts emanating from the bed and breathing in the scent that was inherently Roger.

It soothed her enough that she stepped back from his room, easing the door shut by inches, grimacing as it creaked the entire time. Just as she was about to pull it shut she heard him shift suddenly on the bed. "Who's there?"

Cursing, she shoved the thought, about the most-assuredly illegal things his voice did to the English language, out of her head and grabbed the door handle pushing against it. The door slid open again and this time she came face to face with a disheveled, but wide awake, Roger. Her eyes widened. He wasn't wearing anything but a pair of black boxers.

Her heart stuttered a bit in her chest and she smiled, trying desperately to ignore the heat in her cheeks.

"Hey," she said lamely, scratching her arm through Mark's coat.

Roger scrubbed the heel of his hand against his eye. "Are you okay?"

She nodded vigorously. "Oh, yeah; I'm heading out though - I should probably get home before my dad sends out a search party."

He nodded and blew out a breath. "Okay, hold on a second." He pushed back the covers and she yelped in surprised dismay.

"What're you doing?" she demanded in a shrill whisper.

"Getting dressed," he muttered, bending over, rummaging around on the floor. "I'll walk you home."

"You don't need to do that..." She cursed herself. "I didn't mean to wake you. I just...heard something."

He raised a brow at her. "You probably heard Collins. He snores so loud I'm surprised all of Alphabet City can't hear him."

She smiled weakly as he stood up from tugging his jeans on and began searching for a shirt to pull over his thin torso.

"Really, Roger...you don't need to walk me." Panicking, she backed away from the doorway. "I'm perfectly fine walking on my own."

He shook his head and tugged on a grey tee shirt. "I'll walk you." He grabbed his jacket and walked from the room, stopping in front of her, where she'd backed herself into the wall of the hallway. "Mark would never let me hear the end of it."

Something in the vicinity of her heart cracked a little. Her eyes misted over and she bit her lip. "Really," she managed. "I'll be fine." She turned and marched up the hallway. "You don't need to come with me. I'll tell Mark I left without telling anyone - you'll be off the hook that way. No one would know."

She could hear him sigh. "I'd know." He came up behind her and touched her shoulder. "It's okay," he murmured. "I don't mind. I wasn't sleeping anyway."

She chuckled softly. "Liar."

"Okay, I was having an awesome dream, and I'm pissed." He tugged on his jacket. "Let's go."

"Roger..."

He paused on his way to the front door. "Yeah?"

She blew out a breath and shook her head. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't ask him about the envelope. "Nothing."

* * *

They walked in silence. He watched her shiver, hands stuffed into the pockets of the brown leather coat that was dripping off of her frame. God, she was so small. His eyes traveled the length of her. He wanted, badly, to reach out and tuck that fluttering, errant strand of hair back into place behind her ear.

He kept his hands in his pockets.

Touching her was never a good idea. He could still feel the imprint of her wrists against his palm, the smooth skin burning its memory into the calloused ridges of his fingers. The last thing he needed was a refresher course of just how potent she could be.

After what had happened at the club, he couldn't make excuses for himself. He still cared. Why else would he be the first person at her side when things got sticky? Why else would he be willing to take a fist in the face for her?

He colored and flicked a glance at her out of the corner of his eye. She seemed just as lost in thought as he was, her brow furrowed deeply and her eyes shadowed. He sighed.

"I'm sorry if I upset you," he murmured.

She looked at him. "What?"

"Last night, if I upset you. I'm sorry." He pressed the button for the crosswalk.

She blinked at him, stopping at his side while they waited for the orange hand to give way to the little white man. "Why do you think you..." she trailed off, no doubt remembering her little outburst in the loft. "Oh."

He chuckled quietly. "You've got a hell of a right, hook, darlin'."

Blushing, she ducked her face into the collar of Mark's coat. "I'm sorry...I didn't hurt you did I?"

He laughed aloud at that. "No," he said, sobering. "No, you didn't."

"Good." She slanted him a measuring look. "About last night..."

"Hmm?"

"I liked the song."

The indescribable feeling that welled in his breast left him speechless, and damn near breathless. He managed an anemic thanks before his voice gave out entirely.

"It was about her, wasn't it?" Olivia asked softly.

"What?"

"It was about April."

April.

That one word sent his mind from the present, down the darkened hallways painted with grief and guilt, into the bathroom where his life had ended as surely as hers.

He was back inside that steamy bathroom, the copper tang of blood strong in his nostrils. His eye watered and he turned away from Olivia's pale face, only to see April's red hair floating on the water, the many crimson rivulets racing themselves down the edges of white porcelain tub. A pale hand and wrist, marred and ragged, hung limply, dripping blood and water.

"Roger?"

Jolting, he stepped away from Olivia's reaching hand, imagining skeletal fingers. "I'm fine."

Her bottom lip poked out a little. "Don't lie." She reached for him again. "Roger..."

"I'm fine, Livvy." He strode swiftly across the street when he noticed the hand blinking madly at him from the other side, not caring if she followed or not.

He heard her sneakers slapping on the concrete as she jogged to catch up to him. "Roger! Slow down!"

He did, reluctantly. "What?"

"I'm sorry..." she chewed on her lip, as though hesitant to continue. His gaze drawn to that nervous movement, Roger barely managed to stifle the groan bubbling in his chest and tore his eyes away.

"For what?" Harsher than he intended, the words were ripped from his belly. Anything, God, anything to get her to stop doing that.

She swallowed loudly and looked very young and unsure of herself. "I didn't mean to bring up bad memories." She winced. "I mean I didn't mean to bring her up, I know that it upsets you."

He laughed bitterly and started walking again. "You could say that."

Cursing under her breath, Olivia caught up with him in three huge strides, catching his arm and spinning him around. "Like it or not, Roger," she said, gripping his forearm with both of her small hands. "I care about you. I want you to be happy. It's hard getting over something like this, I..." she trailed off, shaking her head. "I know that just as well as anyone. I thought my life was over when Mom died."

"You were eight, Liv," he reminded her. "That's completely different."

"No!" she shouted, throwing his arm away from her. "No, it's not. It's life. And we choose whether we let the things that happen to us ruin our lives or inspire us to live more fully."

He bit the inside of his cheek, wanting to curse at her, grab her, shake her. Kiss her. "Olivia..."

"Roger. We love you - that's why we're hounding you about the heroin."

A guilty fist twisted in his chest, but the monster fed the temper. "That's none of your business," his voice, deadly quiet gave her a moment's pause before she barreled on with all the earnestness of youth.

"It is my business Roger, if you're intent on killing yourself with that poison, then I am intent on stopping you."

"How?"

She cocked her head and stared up into his face. The expression was so disgruntled and cute he nearly laughed, despite his annoyance. "Any way I have to."

"I know what I'm doing, Liv. You don't need to worry about me." He started walking again. "Come on. You said you wanted to be home before your dad left for work, right?"


	11. Ten

**Chapter Ten**

_Meet me at The Vice. We need to talk._

Olivia tucked the note back into the pocket of her borrowed jacket and hurried down the street. She'd no more than stepped into the kitchen when she had found the note Mitch had left for her written in her brother's hurried scrawl. The red ink was a touch over-dramatic, she thought.

Nerves skittered along her spine and despite her resolve to react to his anger calmly, and maturely, Olivia chewed fearfully at the inside of her cheek. For a moment she stood on the porch, debating whether or not to ignore his summons. After all, he'd been rude enough to leave it in a note instead of talking to her directly.

It would serve him right if she didn't show up.

Thinking about the repercussions of that action was enough to help her decide against blowing Mitch off. Instead, she took off down the sidewalk at a jog.

In the bright light of mid-morning, The Vice looked more like the run-down, two-bit club it was, rather than the hot spot of Alphabet City night-life. She stepped into the smoky air and chewed at her bottom lip.

"Olivia!"

Her thought of: _Oh thank God _evaporated into a hearty_ damn it_, the minute she realized the person calling her name was not her brother, but Sheridan.

The hulking club manager stalked toward her with all the menace of a charging grizzly. Any hope of darting out the door to safety was dashed when he stepped between her and her escape route.

Wincing, she tilted her head back and smiled weakly up into his furious face. "Hey."

"Hey?" he repeated. "That's all you can say to me, after last night? 'Hey'?"

"Look, Sheridan..."

He held up a large hand. "I don't care, Liv. I'm going to be pressing charges. Tell your little rocker friend to expect to be paying punitive damages for the next fifty years."

"Don't!" Olivia's outburst echoed through the empty club. Sheridan raised a sleek, dark eyebrow and crossed his arms.

"And why shouldn't I?"

"It wasn't Roger's fault."

He scoffed. "Of course not. I'm sure Nick, who is recovering nicely, by the way, started it all."

"Sort of." She winced at the wheedle in her voice. The youth in her words made her straighten her shoulders and jut out her chin. "I mean, Nick was getting fresh with me and Roger stepped in to mediate. Things just got a little out of hand, that's all."

"A little?" He grabbed her arm roughly and jerked her toward the stage. "Look at this mess! Does that look _little_ to you, Olivia? I'll be lucky if I can get my sound system back up and running in a month for all this equipment is going to cost me. Roger had better have some deep pockets because I'm planning on squeezing them. Hard."

Thinking about the two-thousand she had saved in her porcelain piggy-bank, she sighed. So much for searching for properties. "I can give you two thousand now, the rest later when I find a job."

The fury on the tall man's face disappeared. It was replaced by something infinitely more terrifying. Calculation. "You're willing to pay for him?"

She thought about Roger and his skinny, sallow face, the barely healed needle tracks.

In that instant, she made up her mind.

Her community center would just have to wait. After all, its purpose was to serve the community, help those in need. What better way to start than pulling Roger's scrawny butt from the fire? "I am."

Sheridan stroked the small patch of hair under his lip and regarded her carefully. "Two thou ain't going to cover it, Livvy, love."

She winced and looked away, resisting the urge to fidget under his gaze that was more like a physical touch. "I know."

"How do you propose you get me the rest of the money?"

"However I can, Sheridan."

His eyes twinkled menacingly. "I can think of a few ways."

Shoulders slumping, she looked at him expectantly. "Well?"

"Work double shifts, here and at the Catscratch." Her eyes widened.

"You've got to be joking..."

"If you'd rather I call the local precinct, I'd be more than happy to..."

"No. No, don't do that. I'm in. I'll do it." She pointed a finger at him. "But the slate's clean once I pay this shit off, okay? I can quit and you don't harass Roger or blackmail me."

His eyebrows winged up and she crossed her arms over her chest.

"Oh yeah, Sher, I've grown up. I can smell blackmail just as easily as I can your cheap ass cologne."

His frown melted into a toothy grin, practically oozing triumph. He stepped out of her way, catching her arm before she could make a break for the door. "Bitch all you want, Liv. You want Roger to stay out of trouble? You start Monday. Eight sharp."

* * *

Mitch didn't show.

It was just like him to be immature enough to employ the role-reversal teaching tool that their father had favored in their, often misspent, youth. She should have known.

Angry that she stayed in that oppressive, smoke-hazed atmosphere one moment longer than she had to, Olivia got up and walked out, well aware that Sheridan followed her every move with his eyes, all but cackling with glee.

And why shouldn't he? He managed to snare the one bird that had been, up to that point, successful in evading him. It looked like escaping to the West Coast hadn't done her one damn bit of good. She was right back where she started five years ago.

Fucked.

Staring at the pavement with single-minded intensity, she didn't hear Cullen calling until she practically ran face first into him. She staggered back and he beamed at her. "We really have to stop meeting like this."

She rolled her eyes and jerked herself free. "Yeah, but that would require that you stop stalking me."

He chuckled and waved a hand at his outfit. "I'm official today. Perfectly legal for me to be walking down the street." She eyed him. "Okay, I just got off my shift, and I'm heading home." He cocked his head. "You look like you had a rough night."

"You could say that."

"Get caught up in the excitement at the Vice last night?"

"Who's asking," she demanded bitterly, shifting away. "Cullen or Officer Murphy?"

"Cullen. I'm off-duty," he reminded her gently, taking her elbow in a light grip. "Are you sure you're okay?"

She blew out a breath, the exhalation dislodging a sob that had been trapped in her throat. "No." she admitted, tears falling in earnest. "Not at all."

Cullen pulled her closer to him, slipping an arm around her shoulders. "Let's go get some coffee."

Laughing through her tears she pulled back to stare up into his face. "Will you stop asking me out, already? The answer's no."

He chuckled and turned her, his steady arm guiding her down the street. "Let's go."

* * *

Roger walked back to the loft slowly, hands in his pockets, whistling a mournful tune under his breath.

Last night played over and over in his mind, bringing a pleasant hum to his blood and a giddy feeling in his belly. It had been just like every other time he'd stepped under the lights: frightening to the point his knees had almost buckled, with the music in his heart echoing in his head.

The heady feeling of the guitar in his hands, the mike pressed against his lips, the audience surging forward, waiting for the first note had made him dizzy, his ears ringing and his eyes sightless. He was blind and deaf to everything but the music.

The song had come then. Something that had been playing in his heart in the months since April's death, and before he received his letter.

When he'd wrote it, he'd thought he had been doomed. No great song for anyone to remember him by, he would fade into the nothingness like many - hell, like most people did.

But last night, only the music had mattered. At least, until he'd seen Olivia's face. He shook his head and turned down 11th Street, heading for Tent City.

He wasn't ready to go back to the loft, facing Collins and Mark.

The tears in her eyes and on her cheeks were different from those he remembered when she'd been a child. Extremely emotional, it was rare for the younger Olivia to get through a set without bursting into tears at least once. But these tears, they weren't the stormy weeping of a hyperactive pre-teen, or the hormonal blubberings of a teenager.

They were the heartbroken tears of an idealist suddenly coming face to face with reality.

She knew.

Sighing and rolling his eyes heaven-ward, he stared up at the puffy white clouds floating aimlessly through the smog-hazed sky.

It shouldn't have surprised him. Olivia had always been as clever as she had been curious. And she, whether she knew it or not, could read him better than most.

But then, he'd done his best to hide that from her, desperate for the distance. Whenever those dark eyes looked at him, it was as if she could see into his soul and read his thoughts. When she'd been a child, it had unnerved him. As she'd grown up, grown more beautiful and desireable, the idea that she could read him like some trashy magazine terrified him beyond measure.

And now, with so many secrets, so much of his past a mystery to her; he feared just what those eyes could do to him. What would she do if she knew?

What would anyone say if they knew that Roger had been meant to die that day as well?

He found his eyes wandering to the darkest corners, the ones that Vince liked to frequent, searching for the man who could quiet the crawling, gnawing, sensation that was beginning to clamber out of his belly and scrape along his nerves. Shuddering he stepped away from the shadow, forcing his gaze to the sidewalk ahead of him.

Turning abruptly, he headed back to the loft, climbing the stairs swiftly. The sun was bright in the windows when he rolled the door back, showing just how shabby the place really was. Sighing heavily, he kicked off his shoes and padding toward the table. His stomach grumbled in agreement when he moved to the kitchen, intent on digging something out of the fridge.

He paused on his way by, his eye caught by the ripped envelope and pen sitting on the metal table. He froze, all rational thought fleeing his mind. The envelope. He lunged and snagged it in his hand reading the hastily scrawled note on the front.

Olivia.

She'd seen the envelope. Crumpling it in his hand, he tossed it to the floor. "'Heard something', my ass," he growled. "More like check on the HIV patient." He glowered at the balled-up paper. "Damn you, Livvy, couldn't leave it alone, could you?"

All thoughts about breakfast forgotton, Roger retrieved his shoes and stormed out of the loft, cursing steadily under his breath.

* * *

Cullen procured the comfortable couch at the Life Cafe and they sat together in silence, Olivia staring at her hands and Cullen staring at Olivia, the concern in his eyes nearly burning a hole through the side of her face. Twitching, she shifted farther away from him, dropping her face into her palms - if only to block her view of the worry in his expression.

"I'm going to need an apartment," Olivia mumbled into her hands, trying to organize the chaotic, fluttering thoughts in her brain into something that resembled a plan. "But, I don't have money for an apartment..." She groaned into her palms again, scrubbing them over her face. "I'm fucked with a capital F."

"You in some kind of trouble, Olivia?"

"You might say that," she agreed, slumping back against the couch cushion. "You also might say that if anyone in my life finds out just what kind of trouble I'm in...I'll be trouble free." He frowned in confusion. Olivia opened one eye a slit, mouth turning up in a sardonic smile. "I'll be dead, Cullen. Deader than a fuckin' doornail."

"You really need a place to stay, then?"

She nodded.

"I'm guessing it's got to be cheap, too?"

Rolling her eyes, she scraped a hand through her hair. "Free would be better."

He hummed at the back of his throat and tapped his fingers on his thigh. "I might have a solution for you."

She gaped at him. "Really?"

He shrugged. "Don't quote me, I said 'might'. Let me check out a few things, get back to you. When do you need the place by?"

"Sooner than Monday."

"Not a whole lot of time to work with..." he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. She stared at him, curiously. His eyes met hers and he smiled. "Not to worry, we'll get it figured out."

She stared into his face, wondering how she came to trust her life in the hands of this stranger. To think it had only been a few days earlier when she'd met the man. And now, he was offering her the only light at the end of her suddenly, impossibly long tunnel.

She laughed suddenly and threw her arms around him. "I am glad I met you, Officer Murphy."

Cullen chuckled and gave her back a good, hefty thump. "Well, that's an improvement at least." He pulled back to wink at her. "I'll have you willing to date me in no time."

She sat back and snorted. "Keep dreaming, copper."

"All right, all right." He held out his hands. "Let me go make some calls - if the waitress comes by, order me a club sandwich and whatever you're hungry for, okay?"

"But..."

"My treat." He left the couch so suddenly, she didn't even get to squeak in protest. Annoyed that he'd managed to finagle a date from her after all, Olivia leveled a scowl at his back, resolving to order the most expensive thing on the menu.


End file.
